Neverland
by KatrinaKaiba
Summary: Complete my lovely mates!
1. James Matthew Barrie's Prolouge

**Neverland**

Ch 1 

Neverland 

_Neverland. _

Your ultimate dreams. Your wildest fantasies. Those thoughts that can never be spoken out loud except to the picturesque mermaids that decorate the lagoon's bank. Never written down, for that adult-like fear that it would be discovered.

_Neverland. _

The one place where you could take your escape from the too hard, the too exhausting, and the too real reality that you're living in and haunts you every day, until, your only means of escape, can only consist and prove to be your banishment from normal life on Earth.

A _Neverland_ is never limited to one part of your imagination, and each one is different to the beholder. Neverland has no faults, no differences, no problems, and no cracks that you can slip through if you lost your way… just pure bliss. Just your happy memories. Just…paradise.

Some people might think of it as heaven, you know, the place you go when your soul leaves Earth and becomes immortal. Your finally means of escape.

Maybe that's what _Neverland_ really is. A haven. A place where we start over. Where, instead of dying, we truly live. A place full of warmth and security. Perhaps security from the world we once knew. Yes. You know the world I'm talking about. If not, I'll explain.

That world full of problems and obstacles, which, when you look at it from _Neverland's_ point of view, wasn't really that important. Wasn't really that critical. For instance, those unfinished bills, that ceiling piled to the brim with papers you forgot to sign, those impressions you tried to make on people, when in fact, those people really didn't matter.

A place where crying is unheard of, fictional. Tears in _Neverland_, if there ever are any, are called love drops. Love drops are those tears in the stream in ones' eyes that are held for the most pleasant occasions. Occasions full of jollity…laughter…happiness. These drops are only produced by the most gay, but everyone has them. The only reason that some do not perform them is because they have forgotten how.

Because they have grown up.

People say that you grow up because you don't want to be a child anymore. And I suppose that's true. Some people don't want to be children anymore. Some people find that childhood is just a waste, a loss of time when you could have been doing more serious things, like going to work, or perhaps even studying for that major test you are so worried about. And they're entitled to that opinion, that frame of mind. But, adults pay the ultimate sacrifice when they choose this fateful option. In the span of up to thirty seconds, which humanly is not considered a lifetime, a lifetime is forgotten. Boys become men and girls become women, and they lose their former self completely. They lose the things that are valued the most in children. Their gaiety…their heartlessness…and the one thing that separates them from adults… their innocence. When people die, there last few moments, save for their thoughts of their special haven, they usual reflect on what it was that went wrong in their life. Where they went wrong. That is not so in children.

Children are, if anything, more complex to understand than adults, and despite adults greedy intentions, children are not so easily won. Children know what happens. They feel it before they see, much like canines. They can read through the contours of your voice, and they can make your expressions seem transparent. Secrets are the only elements of pretending that children do not believe in. And that is why secrets die so fast; no child is there to believe them.

The most complex thing about a child is their mind. Every day a child grows older, grows wiser, and with that comes the elements of adulthood, of knowing. Have you ever tried to read a child's mind? No, I suppose you haven't. You can't. It is impossible! A children's mind is not like a map that you can open and close at will and refer to as your paramount reference, and know it will never contain or reveal new information. Doctors can create maps of other parts of your body, like your circulatory system for example. They create a map for those just in cases, for if anything is ever wrong or out of place. That is unheard of in a child's mind. Imagine them trying to conjure a map of a child' mind. I'd like to see them try. For a child's mind is not only confused, but keeps going and working and seeing all the time. It's always registering something, no matter what it is. Nothing is out of place there. Everything is taken in, never sorted out. In their mind they have all the adventures of that day, the things they heard, the places they'd seen, and even though they stow them away in the back of their mind, they never forget. Until they become adults of course.

When they become an adult, they are able to now sort out those memories and things that they don't want or don't find necessary anymore. They pack them up in boxes and just like a woman who is divorced and does not wish for the husband to contain his things in her presence anymore, they throw it out through the window in the part of their brain that contains their mentality. Most of the time, those boxes, contains their imaginations. The one thing that adults keep, for reasons that I am unsure of, is the ability to pretend.

Now, even if you can't see it, there is a difference from imaging to pretending. To imagine is to see yourself as you wish you could be. You have no other frame of mind, no other thought besides your wanting, your need, and your happiness. Imagining is forgetting the consequences, the problems and just remembering that there is a way to escape. Pretending is like the qualifications of murder, although not that drastic and illegal. To pretend means that you know full well that there is a world beyond which you pretend. There are consequences; there are rules. To pretend, you make an artificial escape, believing that as long as no one knows, you can keep pretending. But, when someone discovers the truth, you can't pretend anymore. And that is why children grow up so fast when they find that adults pretend to them. In reality, all mothers suffer a death of a child. They lose them when they grow up. They lose them when they start pretending.

_Neverland_

The place where adults find their imaginations again. A place where adults don't need a status to be accepted. No one is rejected.

_Neverland_

A place where you never get older and never get tired from those things that you thought unimportant. The place where adults stop growing up and truly start living. Adults see the truth in things, not the price. They see the things they rejected to see because they were too busy, too tired, or too old. Or even, too scared.

Neverland is the place where they realize they never get older and never get tired from those things that they thought unimportant, these being mainly their childhood. They embrace it with open arms and they realize that their forgotten childhood imagination, wasn't really a barrier to secrets of happiness in life. That their life might have been better if they had just believed in their imaginations and didn't throw it out their glass frames.

My name is really of no consequence to those living in real life, but to them I am known as James Matthew Barrie. I know what your thinking. Since I know so much about _Neverland_, you think I invented it; that I made it up. But that is not so. The first baby, known as Cain, was the first child to open its eyes and embrace his imagination and create his ultimate escape, his _Neverland. _The first _Neverland. _

_Neverland_ was created by God, and is his final gift. Heaven. But Cain, being human and mortal and containing God's gift of free will, he was also known as the first boy to become a man, and to throw his imagination away… to stop believing.

You don't know me, so you don't have to believe me, but _Neverland_ is real. It exists, whether you accept it or not. I did not invent it; I just named it. And in _Neverland,_ I have my own name. A different one. One that is not judged or classified in status. One that reflects my imagination, which I have never lost even though I am thirty-three years of age. I have never grown up, although because of how I appear, that is what adults believe. I say adults because they have suffered the loss of their imagination. But children, who still have their precious imaginations, and know the truth of _Neverland_, disregard my born name, and bless me with this one…

Peter Pan.


	2. Meet the Barries

**Neverland**

Disclaimer: I do not own Neverland or the wonderful J.M Barrie, that is all owned by Mirimax

A/NL Sorry I haven't updated in a while me mateys, I was sick, and then there's school, but I thank you for being patient and for all the inspiring reviews.

Dedications: This chapter is to the following people: Marissa and her mom for being my first readers. And Dawnie-7 for being my first reviewer.

And these also go out to my starting reviewers. You rock me hearties:

**_Dawnie-7: _Thank you for being my first reviewer. And I was really flattered by your compliments. Enjoy this new chapter. Tell me what you think.**

**_Krystie Jamison: _Oh you are seriously are missing out. Go see the movie. Shame on you. Just kidding. Thank you for the review and thanks for the compliment**

**_Nessie6: _Sorry if this wasn't fast enough but I tried to update faster but you know, all the complicated things in life. (sigh) oh well. Enjoy this new chapter.**

**_LazerWulf: _I'm glad I left you almost speechless. But thank you for the _profound_ review. lol. Enjoy the new one.**

**_Katesparrow: _Thank you very much. I love it when reviewers enjoy my stories. I'll try to update faster, but I can't make promises. And thank you for realizing that. I wasn't sure if I was completely true in his style of writing, but that was what I was going for, and it makes me feel better when someone confirms what I was going for. Enjoy the new chap.**

**_Gee Nay Pig_: I glad your welcome and thank you again for dedicating one of your chapters to me. This chapter is also dedicated to you for my dedication. I hope you love this one as well. And please update soon.**

**_chef13: _Thank you. I hope you love this chapter as well.**

**_Shanelover1:_ I'm glad you look forward to more, I just hope I can meet with your expectations.**

_Ch.2 _

_Meet the Barries_

"Can anything harm us in the night, Daddy?" Michael Barrie asked, after reluctantly settling underneath his warm red-checkered bed covers.

He hated going to sleep, as do all children do. But what most children don't realize is that after they finally close their drowsy lids, pass the time in their dreamland, and once they are removed from that wonderful place, they fight just as hard to stay asleep, as they had to stay awake. Alas, such is another complex reasoning of a child.

"No Michael, darling. That is what mothers and fathers are for. They protect their wee little ones as they sleep." Responded the soothing Scottish voice of James Matthew Barrie as he stroked the near to dozing boy beneath him's hair.

The contrast between the two was instantly recognizable. James dusky black hair, which was usually combed straight back and detained with hair oil, was cascading over his chocolate affectionate eyes-due to his zealous chasing of his unremitting boys around the house- and stridently defined face and rich, playful Scottish voice, differed conspicuously from Michael always chaotic, bowl shaped, dirty blond hair and naïve sea blue eyes and still childishly chubby face. But despite their contrasts, you saw underneath, pushing strongly to the surface, a love that was flagrant, and the relationship didn't just consist between them two. It could be found, as well, from the three other occupants, now sleeping peacefully in their beds. George, Jack, and Peter. All loving and all safe.

"Daddy… does that mean that…_mommy, _watches us?"

James paused for a moment, not to ponder a thoughtful answer, but to stare fondly at his anxiously, rapidly blinking son's aquatic eyes. In it's depths, he saw a sandy beach, with crystal blue water that reflected the majestic golden royal crimson red of the setting sun, that made the gliding figure, that had suddenly appeared as from the essence of the air, seem like a goddess. A goddess that seemed to have floated straight from her heaven in the sky, or as the Greek mythologists seem to predict as Olympus.

Her long strawberry blond curls cascaded teasingly around her bare shoulders. Her white gown was made of the finest white silk, as if spun, in fact, by the rare silk worms that are found to take residence in China. It draped seductively around her shoulders, revealing a fine neck accentuated with defined collarbones. It flowed behind her in the wind angelically as she moved, although, no wind made its presence, if that made any sense; the palm trees remained lifeless.

As she sauntered closer, her hips swaying to some indistinct rhythm, her face became plain as the nose on your face. Her eyes were of no difference. They were the same enticing crystal blue adorned with light gold flecks that brightened up when the light hit it, or when she laughed that adorable laugh of hers, that he so easily earned from her every time he joked around with her. Her lips remained the same full curving shape that inspired others to smile as well. Those lips that taunted and teased him and made him strive hard for a kiss that, although apparent, was one that he could never have. And oh, when she gave him a perfect white pearled smile, full of joie de vivre and enchantment, he remembered that feeling he always felt in the deep, but not hidden, chambers of his heart, and the lightheadedness that caused him to pleasantly sway like a pirate captain that exceeds the limit of its toleration of intoxication.

She was the same. And he always remembered her thus. A perfect…radiant…angel. His angel.

His Sylvia.

But there was something different about her. Something… that he hadn't noticed before. A matchless glow. It always puzzled him, whenever he visited Neverland and he saw her. He rapped his brain vigorously to figure out what it was. It was like…

"Daddy!" impatient Michael whined-as do most five-year olds-while he pulled on his inattentive father's right sleeve cuff.

Shaking his head, to erase his current conflicts, and gazed back without dazed emptiness as he answered his restless son's question with a warm smile.

"Michael… have you ever looked up at the stars at night and seen one that catches you eye, and shines especially bright?"

"Yeah…"

"And have you ever noticed that after a few seconds of looking at it, it begins to twinkle?"

"Yes."

"Well me wee bonnie lad, did you know that stars talk?"

Michael blinked a few times. _Talk? How can stars talk?_

"Talk?"

"Yes, talk?"

"Daddy… Are you pulling my leg?"

" No Michael," He said seriously put reached downward toward the middle of them bed and grabbed the bump apparent there, "Now, I'm pulling your leg." And Michael laughed then, as his father began tickling unmercifully his dainty feet.

"Sto-p Da-ha-d-dy. Pl-l-ease."

"Say, "I'm a codfish." Come on, say it." He said as he proceeded to attack his laughing tots midsection.

"O-k-k, I –gi-ve! I'm a codfish."

"Louder!" James said, still unrelenting.

"I'M A CODFISH!" he screamed pathetically, waiting for his father's usual routine to cease, so he could release that fresh new passage of oxygen to his miniature, throbbing lungs.

And right on cue he stopped, as well did the peaceful sleeping of the elder three boys.

"What is he a codfish for this time father?" the eldest, George Llewelyn Davies Barrie asked, rubbing his formerly sleep encrusted eyes and looking quite a sight in with his tousled russet hair.

"Because I said so." He replied innocently with a slight shrug of his left shoulder, and left it at that.

"What are you talking about?" said the 10-year old, Peter Llewelyn Davies Barrie, with a slight yawn as he walked over to the side of Michael's bed.

James smiled at him happily. Peter was steadily adapting to his fatherly presence day by day, and was warming up to him the way a son does to a father. Even though he refused to call him father, and insisted on referring to him as James, James knew at heart that Peter loved him as he did his old father. Not in the same way, of course. He knew he could never, and would never, try to replace their father, but he knew that Peter understood this. And that was all he wanted. If anything, he wanted to be the friend to him that he could go to and talk to about anything, if that was what he wished. And since Peter was showing signs towards this, he suspected he was fulfilling his own wishes. His own wishes of showing Peter that he loved him and would always be there for him. For anything.

"Talking about stars."

"Stars? What about them?" Jack Llewelyn Davies, the middle child, asked curiously, his tiredness ebbing away as he joined the three of them on the bed.

" Well, I was just conveying to Michael, that sometimes when you look close enough, stars twinkle, and when they do, they are trying to talk to you."

"Poppy cosh. Stars don't talk." Said George from his resting place.

"Ooo, look who knows so much." Said James tauntingly and the boys played along by saying in mock reference "Oooo."

"All I'm saying is… if stars talk, how come we can't hear them?"

That was a brilliant point, and all four of them stared at James expectantly, especially George, who, getting over his flush of being embarrassed, was sitting up straight and had his arms folded neatly across his chest, with his chin held up high, as if he was regal king laughing haughtily at the court jester.

But James just chuckled slightly and shook his head, catching the four of them off guard and George to knit his eyebrows in curiosity.

"Well, if I can't just tell you, and have you believe me George, why don't I just show you? Hmm?"

And their eyes followed him; Peter, Jack, and Michael's excitedly, and George's skeptically, as he unlatched the bronze safety latch on the nursery's windows sit idly on the window seat stationed there.

Moments passed, and he just continued to sit there, not saying a word, just inhaling deeply every few moments and gazing lazily at the stars.

The clock began to strike the hour of nine, and still he was there. Finally, unable to suppress the torment any longer, George piped up, " What are you doi-?" but before he could finish the last word, James waved an impatient hand at him and said, "Shh, I'm listening."

This made Jack, Peter and George raise their eyebrows at each other and give looks of utter disbelief, but Michael, he was a different story. He threw the covers off himself, and scurried over to the window as fast as his little legs would take him, clad only in his white nightgown, and kneeled close to his father on the window seat.

"To what?" he whispered hungrily, totally awake now and staring animatedly.

James stared back at his awaiting face and smiled lightly.

" The stars." He said plainly, as if we talking about the weather.

"What are they saying?" he asked, hanging on to James' every breath and word.

"Well…" he said slowly, pointing his finger toward a group of stars twinkling particularly brightly, "those stars are talking about politics. And those over there," shifting his finger to another group to the far right of the previous one, " they are talking about that other group and arguing about how they _only_ talk about politics," he said rolling his eyes at the emphasis of the word, earning a laugh from the believing figure, " And that one right there," he whispered dramatically and flourishing his forefinger toward a star that seemed to shining the brightest, " reprimanded in saying that you should be in bed by now, and asked me to remind ya to stop flinging porridge at your brothers at the breakfast table. It's not becoming." He finished with a grin, and it widened at seeing his son's opened-mouth reaction.

Ignoring it for a moment, he noticed that the other boys were also in shock, and he put his hand to his ear and looked as if he was listening to something.

Waiting eagerly, they noticed finally that he began nodding his head and saying, "Mhhmmm," approvingly. He finally tore nodded one finally nod toward the star, got up slowly, closed and latched the windows and made his way slowly to the door.

With a loving look, his said pleasantly, "G'night boys," and reached to flick the switch when they all yelled simultaneously, "WAIT!"

He walked awkwardly back into the nursery and with his eyes knitted together and his hands on his hips, he asked, "Yes?"

They all rambled off at the same time, so it was impossible, except for themselves, to understand what their intentions were.

"What did it say-"?

"Did it talk about me-"?

"Did you hear anything else-"?

"When's breakfast-"?

"Wait a moment!" James said holding up his hands for silence.

"I can not possibly understand a word if you're all talkin' at once. Now my sillies, get into bed and I tell ya what the star told me to tell each of you." Obediently, they all trudged quickly to their beds, covered themselves and waited restlessly for the answer to their questions.

He went to Michael's bed first, proceeded to tuck him in, and tucking his teddy bear under his left arm, said,

" Breakfast will be in the mornin' silly. We're having eggs."

Walking toward Jack's bed, he repeated this process, and said to him,

"The star says to remind ya ' to tuck in your shirt, and to finish that essay that's due Monday.'"

At George's bed, which was closer to Jack's then Peter's, he again tucked him in, but removed his glasses that he had just been diagnosed with, he said,

"It said, 'to stop being so serious all the time and to have fun.' And it also said to 'stop leavin' your socks everywhere for the dog to find and chew up.'"

Finally, making it to Peter's bed, he tucked him in and sat down on the edge.

"She is very proud of you, and she wishes that she could be here with you. She hopes that you will continue to write the story you are currently working on. She says she loves it."

Peter glanced back toward the window at the star, still blinking bright, but growing dimmer by the second.

"Mom…"

"Yes Peter. That's your mom."

The other children were asleep, already in their dreamlands, but Peter was still not satisfied and wanted to know more.

"But… how can I talk to her? How can I talk to the stars?"

"You can't."

"How can I hear her?"

"You can't."

"But… then how can you?"

"It is a mystery. I've been talking to stars for years."

"But… how..?

"Some things, Peter, cannot be explained. You cannot talk to your mother by the stars, Peter, because you don't know how, " he said placing a finger to his lips, to prevent him from asking the question he already knew before he said it, " And I cannot teach you. It's something that cannot be taught. You have to find out yourself."

"How?"

"Just believe. Believe you can, and you will. But don't fret on it tonight. Tonight, go to Neverland, for you don't have to be taught to got there."

Peter yawned tiredly and his eyes began to droop.

"She's waiting for you Peter. Go to her, and talk to her. Perhaps read her your stories. She can't wait to see you."

His eyes finally gave away, and he slipped slowly, and peacefully into his Neverland.

James leaned forward, kissed him lightly on the forehead, and sighed deeply as he pulled away.

He stared at his face and whispered, "Oh, why can't you stay like this forever."

He got up slowly and walking toward the switch, he flicked it off and turned back to be greeted unintentionally, by his children's deep sighs and breaths of sleep washing over them.

"Why can't you all stay like this forever?"

'_But they can't'_, he reminded himself, '_they must grow up_.'

And with that final thought, he retreated out the door, and closed it noiselessly behind him.

Dreams.

Dreams, along with the light that shone from the moonlight and talking stars, and soon also, they too would retreat to their homes and sleep. This was brought on by the dawn.

Time.

Time passed on unheard of. Ignored entirely.

But the clock still chimed faithfully the hour.

Dawn.

Dawn would soon peek over the mountaintops, signified symbolically by the sun awaking from its slumber and pushing back its covers, known as the horizon.

Awaken.

Soon the boys would be awaken from their dreams, whether fitful or full of happiness, by their father, and would struggle, as do all children, to be pulled back into their warm imaginings.

Remembrance.

Jack, George, and Michael Llewelyn Davies would absentmindedly forget what they heard last night, for they wished, unintentionally, not to remember it.

Peter.

But Peter would not forget that night, for he willed not to. He would never forget about James' teachings of the stars and the ability to talk to his mother through them. And he wouldn't forget what James had said about believing.

But what no one knew was, that before he had slipped through the portal in his mind where dreams and Neverland were stored, was that just before he had closed the door in the nursery and in fact Peter's dream portal, James had whispered something to himself. Something that, had not Peter been straining to hear it, would have been overlooked as a slight sound heard off in the fair distance. But since he had heard it, and understood it, he would never forget it.

"But that doesn't mean they have to stop… believing."


	3. Christmas Party for Nonbelievers

**Neverland**

_Ch 3. _

_Christmas Games For Non-Believers_

A/N Thank you all for your wonderful reviews. I'm sorry, I reallyhaven't had enough time to update. Well I hope you enjoy this new chapter.

"Why do I have to wear a tie? And why are we having this stupid party?" George Davies demanded, while pouting under the fact that he was being forced to dress up for an occasion that would only require him to smile politely, perhaps shake a few hands, and talk to people that would say, 'Oh, I remember when you were this tall,' and would proceed to measure his height with an excited hand, and would stare at him, as if expecting him to remember them.

"Because your grandmother said so. And don't use that ugly word, think of something of more intelligence." James reprimanded as he straightened George's tailcoat so that it wasn't tucked unnoticed in his breeches.

"The reason we're havin' this ridiculous party, as I'm sure you intended to say," he continued, his eyes twinkling at his pointed caustic remark, "is because your grandmother thinks it will prepare ya for when you get older." James winced slightly, but hid it as he ducked his head and got up.

He knew completely that this party was just so Mrs. Du Murir could torment him and proceed to try and transform him into a more fatherly figure. One that enjoyed talking about grueling politics over a glass of straight brandy. One that had his mind on the task ahead and was never distracted by those intended purposes in his life, like his lovable children. Not the kind that played with children in the back yard when the first snow of the season erupted in full bloom, and ruined his work suits as he created snow angels and saints and made snowman that could never be unhappy and almost seemed lifelike. Not the kind that sat at his desk, and wrote plays and stories that were introduced to the veiled world with skepticism, but ended up being loved and greeted with derestricted arms. One that didn't constantly believe that life was more than it appeared to be. More than what anyone saw. More than what she saw. Not one that appeared to be a man and contain a man's intelligence, but really had a child's heart.

And certainly not one that believed in fairies.

He remembered vividly the conversation(well more like a civilized brawl) that had been apparent just a few days before between Mrs. Du Muerir and himself.

Flashback

"Mr. Barrie?" Julie the maid asked his employer after proceeding to fill his tea cup and fill a plate with scones for his mid-afternoon break.

"Yes Julie?" he asked with a small smile. He liked Julie. She had a child's face, and she was one of those adults who, hidden by a workers mask, was truly a pleasure of company and was always good for a laugh. He always thought she had a bubbly personality.

"I've just remembered. Mrs. Du Maurir asked me to tell you, if you would please, when your finished of course, if you would please go down to the library where she would like to talk to you about a few things.

_I'm in trouble_, he thought childishly to himself. He knew if he ever had to be _called_ to the formidable grandmother's presence, then he did something that was against he approval. Oh well, what else was new.

"Of course. Julie, tell her that I would be delighted to meet her in..." he glanced at the chime clock on his wall, which read five minutes to four, "five minutes."

"Will do sir." and she left as briskly as she had come.

When she had closed the door, she took an a sharp intake of breath, as she had been denying herself the natural task of breathing, and said in a sighing voice.

"Oo. Cute." and proceeded to make her way back down to the kitchens (I took that from Secret Window from that girl in the post office. I couldn't help it, someone had to voice it.)

Finishing his scone and downing his now lukewarm tea, being a man of his word and knowing that she would have more reason to scold him if he was not prompt, he walked briskly through the refurnished burgundy carpets and pearl walls, and reached the brass handle just as another hand clasped over his.

"Oh, Mr. Barrie. Please excuse me, I didn't notice your hand there." Mrs. Du Murier said apologetically whilst removing her hand.

_Liar. _He didn't see her, but he knew she saw him before she came to the door. She just wanted to be there first.

"It's quite all right Mrs. Du Muerir." he said with a forced smile and opened the door. With a sweeping bow he indicated for her to go in, just as he was always taught to do. Ladies first.

Without even glancing at him, she brushed passed, leaving that awful smelling formaldehyde, which she claimed was perfume, but he knew better, and he knew that all she was doing, to his disappointment, was trying to keep herself alive for as long as she could. Now don't get him wrong. He didn't wish that she would keel over as soon as she took another step, he just wished she was in someone else's hair for once, not his.

"Mr. Barrie. I think you realize that I have called you hear to talk to you."

If 'old crone' had another name to it, it would Mrs. Du Muerir, he thought with a slight scowl behind her back but quickly and skillfully changed it to an expression of mild interest, so she wouldn't be any the wiser.

"Well I'm all ears..."

_Unfortunately._

"Well, Mr. Barrie, as you well know, my daughter and I used to have an annual Christmas party at my mansion."

His throat double-clutched on him when heard mention of Sylvia, but whisked the problem away by stating, "Yes I remember, me and Mary attended a few of them." He thoughts now traveled toward another woman who was no longer present in his life, but it was to his relief of this fact.

Mary Barrie. Well, Mary Shoemaker to be exact. He laughed inwardly at the name. _Shoemaker. _The least she could do would be to pock a man with a name that didn't coincide with a shoe and the ground that you walked on.

She had left him after she blatantly accused him of having fornications with Mrs. Davies, which had absolutely not happened. _She_ was the one having the fornications, and not just one, he guessed. She had been around the cobblestones a couple of times, and he always thought she had some nerve to accuse him of being unfaithful. Oh well, their marriage was over and done with, and he could ignore her letters and move on to more enjoyable things in his life.

This statement, of course, does not satisfy the new situation involving a Christmas party.

"Well, Mr. Barrie," she continued, as if she didn't know that she was throughly annoying him," Since Sylvia, is, um, no longer... alive, I need your help in seeing that the party goes smoothly."

"Ah", he realized, " I see."

"Yes, so I've already arranged for a tailor to come and get the boys and your measurements..."

"The boys?" he said, suddenly turning to her with full attention.

"Y-Yes," she stuttered slightly at his unexpected reaction, "they are attending as well."

"Why?"

"Because they always have, and we shouldn't deprive them of a vital lesson of society that they will need for when they get older. As a matter of fact, George is almost near the age of courting."

He remembered that time. That was when he met Mary.

He hated it.

"But Mrs. Du Maurier, this is completely pointless. They will learn nothing but boredom. Parties, _our_ types of parties, are extremely overated and funless for children." he argued, moving his hands animatedly to try and convey his point.

"Then they shall learn to have fun, Mr. Barrie." she snapped at him which stopped him of his arguing and leaving his hands hanging limply at his sides.

"Not all life is fun and games. Not all life is pretend and make believe. Someday those children will grow up. You can't stop it. They need to realize what they are meant to become. Upstanding, civilized gentlemen."

"And you think that skipping a party is deprivation?" he chuckled mockingly, "You speak as if nothing else in the world matters except the standards of society. Well Ms. Du Maurier, once you take away their childhood, they'll have nothing left. They will know that the end is coming for them, and then nothing else will matter. Nothing else will exist to them. Not society, not rumors, not courting, not parties, and, God forbid, not even you." he paused to let the sarcasm sink in and enjoy the outraged look on the once hawk-like woman into a vicious hungry vulture, who looked ready to bite his hot head off, before he continued. She was speechless.

"A party is a mere trifle compared to the deprivation that you are inflicting upon these poor, _innocent_, children. All they have now is their dreams... their hopes... their beliefs. If you take that away from them, they wont believe in anything anymore. They'll suffer from our malady that will only lead to our destruction. _Understanding_. If you want to be responsible for that destruction, then place the burden on your own shoulders...not mine."

"Mr. Barrie," recovering from her lack of speech, " I am merely preparing these children for their lives. I want what is best for them. What is right for them. And they do not need your dumbfounding assumptions about the world and your ridiculous notions on this made up fantasy that does not exist. Because it doesn't exist, Mr. Barrie, it's all in that maze that you clarify as your brain."

She walked passed him them, put paused, turned back to him and continued quietly.

"Sometimes I sit at the table and see you talking to the children and think to myself, 'I don't have three grandchildren and respectable, distinguished, guardian. I have three grandchildren and a strange child over to play. Well play time is over, Mr. Barrie. You've all had your fun. It's time to get serious. Time to get real. I intend to show them reality, not the crap you write and make up for a living."

She placed a trembling hand on the fought over doorknob.

"They need to grow up Mr. Barrie. And apparently...so do you."

And with that she slammed the door, ending the verbal assault, and leaving a vengeful man behind her.

James walked stiffly to a leather armchair near the nightly lit fire. He placed his head in his hands and muttered quietly to himself.

"You were right Sylvia..."

He smiled astutely and said,

"She is a bitch."

End of Flashback

So, basically, with no real decision that would rival that of the cynical grandmother's determination, James was forced to go on with a plastic smile and watch as their grandmother destroyed his loving boys.

They complained to him, he said there was nothing he could do.

Their faces were turned into grotesque faces of the severely disgusted; faces unfit for children.

He could only watch with fake contentment, while really, his heart was aching out for them.

He was shaken out of his morose thoughts, and found his gaze resting awkwardly facing the opposite wall. It seemed he had momentarily gone deaf, for when he realized where he was staring, sound reverberated and echoed loudly in his ears and he quickly clamped his hands over them to stop the slight ringing that had occurred as a detested effect.

He turned wildly searching for the cause of the din, and his eyes met with the usual scene of topsyturviness. George, Jack, and Peter were tearing frantically after Porthos, James' dog, who apparently had stolen something again and tried, but was unsuccessful, in his attempts to filch away with the 'borrowed' new chew toy. Michael, who had given up on his stubby and unhelpful legs two minutes previous, was sitting on the foot stool by the fireplace's hearth and watched animatedly at the scene that was evolving around him and James' shocked eyes.

James, who before, suffered from being mute, recovered from his symptoms and found himself, surprisingly, aggravated.

"ENOUGH!!" He bellowed, causing, if you could imagine it, a sort of car crash, as every single being in the room became motionless as they stared, including the sly bulky dog, flabbergasted at their usually calmed guardian, who at the moment, resembled a raging volcanic eruption.

Successfully draining the abrupt flaming rouge that had appeared instinctively onto his cheeks and regaining his composure, James eyed the children and stated in a chilling voice that was unfamiliar to his own, "Explain yourselves." And before they could answer, he added "One at a time."

Well being that Michael was unreliable to retain information for more than three seconds, and Peter was nursing a slightly bloody lip after crashing in to the sturdy desk facing the window in the nursery, and Jack was too shocked by his father's reaction, George decided that he was best fit to relay what happened.

As if sensing he was about to speak, James gestured a impatient hand at George and said, "Well?"

George gulped, his voice feeling cumbrous in his throat at the sight of his beloved guardian. He had never seen him so fuming before. His grandmother, yes, but he knew how to handle her. This sudden change was too abrupt and so unplanned, that George was as flustered as the others were as they stared at him.

"I'll ask once more. What happened? If you do not answer, I will bring your grandmother in, and believe me, she is not in the mood for this, and it could get even uglier than my face right now. So stop staring at it and tell me, **_what happened_**."

"Well... Porthos went into your room... and, uh, we tried to stop him, but, he uh...went in your closet and stole your um..." George glanced nervously at his feet.

James noticed the hesitation in his voice, and said, more calmly and with less brass, "Wha'? What did Porthos take o'mine?"

"Your, uh..." he looked up to meet James' persistent but gentle gaze and sighed briefly before adding reluctantly,

"Shoes..." he said in a meek voice and turned back to face his own shoes once more.

James looked down to mimic George's movement at his own feet, but, all he saw, was stocking feet. His gaze then turned to his disobedient dog and glared at him.

"Porthos. Come here." he commanded in a menacing tone.

When the dog glanced uncomfortably at the boys, James repeated what he said in a louder voice, and the dog tramped gloomily to bow his head near his master's feet, his shoes personifying the same saturnine gloom of the dog's disposition.

"Porthos... drop 'em."

The dog looked up into his masters eyes which dared the dog to defy him. Knowing better than to be insubordinate at his raging master, he dropped the shoes with a somber plop, realizing the game was over.

"Good boy." James said, reaching a hand toward his black leather, drooled on shoes.

_Maybe not._

Just before James could clasp his hand over the wet leather, Porthos snatched the shoes away, and made a break through James' legs. James, reaching wildly for the dog, caused himself to be flipped over onto his back and cursed slightly as he watched his snake-like dog, make away with his treasure. Well not really treasure, they were just shoes, but...

"Hey boys, let's play a little game." James called from the floor, a roguish smile thawing his once iced disposition.

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Peter walked stealthily along the corridors, eyes peeled for any signs of movement apparent under the brim of his wide cowboy hat.

He saw him, he had almost ran into him.

"I got ya now, Sheriff Dog, and I'm gonna teach ya a lesson. Put him up and draw. If yer not yella?" He said in a drawling southern accent, tinted with bits of British, as he pointed both his pair of forefingers and thumbs in the mock- resemblance of a gun at the cowering dog still trying to continue with his robbery of his master's shoes.

Turning abruptly, the dog jetted, and Peter bellowed, "He's barreling down the stairs."

James, who was hiding in the laundry closet at the time, came jetting out on a mop, pretending it was molasses pinto, and racing after the dog, down the stairs. Pretending, as it's like in movies, he sprung off the mop and landed ungracefully on the floor, taking Porthos with him. They rolled the remaining way down and were sent sprawled onto the floor, Porthos on James' chest, breathing shallowly, as James was clutching his shoes, breathlessly laughing hysterically.

The boys, following suit, appeared riding down the stairs on their own matching steads; ones with manes that had cleaned up numerous amounts of accidental mishaps. They started cheering gayly at the sight of their father's shoes safely returned to his ownership, and danced and sang tuneless tunes as James' got up from his sprawled position and joined them.

They had forgotten that anyone else existed at that moment in time, as they hopped to and fro, dancing wildly. This was a party to them. Full of dancing and laughter and gay chatter, not gloomy plastic faces, fancy vestments and boring talk over glasses of champagne.

Their celebration was stopped in full circle as an astonished voice rang through the room, almost as if someone was clearing their throat in aggravation.

" Ah-hm!"

The dancing stopped.

The laughter ended.

The smiles faded as they all turned to face a disgruntled old women with eyes as wide as saucers and her hands placed firmly on her hip.

"Well I never.... What have you got to say for yourselves this time?" Emma Du Maurir growled as glared down each and ever soul in the room.

_What a picture this would make_, James thought as he watched the boys glance down at the floor, ashamed of their actions. He could easily see it all in his mind. Four, no, _five_, boys standing in a military line. Their faces sweaty with fresh perspiration, their once elegantly groomed hair, now clinging to the sweat and covering their eyes with a sticky shade in tangled masses that resembled a mass of clustered tree leaves and branches. A military sergeant staring haughtily down at them, and looking ready to force them to do pushups until they collapse from exhaustion, or their arms bleed.

Four boys staring down guiltily.

One boy, unashamed.

"Well, don't even think of coming up with an excuse this time. After the party, you receive your punishment, for right now, go upstairs, and Julie will attend to you."

"Yes ma'am" the boys grumbled lightly, as they turned and stomped back up the stairs.

James brushing his hair back from his eyes, opened his mouth to speak, to argue, but she held up a hand to stop him.

"Don't James. It is my turn to talk and it is your turn to listen. I only asked of you, one, simple, thing. To just go along with this party and get the boys ready. And you can't even do that," he winched at the fury in her voice, and remained quiet, for although he would never admit it, she was right. It let things get out of hand.

"Now, I suggest, you march yourself upstairs this instant and get ready. The guests are already starting to arrive.

"Yes _mother."_ He muttered disdainfully, as he turned to march up the stairs.

"What did you say?"

He turned back toward her.

She was slightly unnerved at the fact that she saw a hatred she had never knew possible; a torched fire, looking back at her through his frequently warm eyes.

"Yes. Emma."

He turned once more and ran up of the stairs, slamming his room door, like a petulant child, behind him.

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The party was a grand affair.

From those who's view was clouded by rumors and gossip.

Anyone who was anyone who was there, and they were all laughing and talking gayly to one another. But to James it seemed as if he were trapped in hell with a bunch of satins devilish followers. He'd wager that underneath all their wigs and tailcoats, that there were horns and scorching pitchforks.

Being a maître d'hotel, it was his obligation, to meet everyone and see that they were enjoying themselves. Well they were. It was just that there wasn't another maitre d'hotel that would make sure that he and the boys were enjoying themselves.

Speaking of the boys...

George...Jack...Michael...

George was carrying a platter of appetizers. Jack was mingling among some of the noble women's innocent daughters. _That rogue_ He thought, smiling as he saw Michael chatting animatedly with some chaps drinking brandy who were staring skeptically at the rather bold five year old.

But...where was Peter.

A loud crowing was the answer to his thoughts, but was not the intended one.

He heard gasps spring out instinctively as he noticed thousands of faces, in shocked emotion, stare at the source of the emphatic crowing.

He turned and met with wide eyes and an agape mouth, as if he had loss control of its movement completely, Peter was sitting on a diamond chandelier, twenty feet up, staring at everyone in the ballroom with haughty eyes.

James steered his expression to Mrs. Du Maurir, who, unsurprisingly looked at if she needed a good dose of smelling salts to keep herself from fainting.

Peter crowed again.

"Where is Peter Pan? I must speak with him. Where is he?"

James didn't know what to do. On the one hand, he could pretend he was Peter Pan, on which he had done on numerous occasions before, and cause attention to himself and Peter. Or he could be civilized and yell at Peter to get down and stop this foolishness.

But he didn't want to be civilized. He didn't want to admit that he was a grown up. He wasn't going to go into that stereotype. He wanted to remain as young as he could for as long as he possibly could. He didn't care what these people thought of him. He was Peter Pan. And Peter Pan, never cared what other's thought, and he wasn't going to start now.

Peter crowed for a third time.

James answered it with his own.

The whole congregation turned to face him, but James wasn't paying attention. He was too busy holding his hands to his hips and smiling emphatically to the seated figure 20 feet above him.

"Peter Pan?"

"Yes. It is I."

"I wish to speak to you."

"What troubles you my great friend?"

"This _party_," Peter spat out the word as he stretched out his hands and gestured to the assembly with revolted hands.

"I know. A bunch of over dressed snobs, eh?" James said, smiling even wider, as one of the woman in the congregation fainted.

"Too true, too true." Peter said, nodding vigorously in agreement.

"Peter."

"Yes, lost boy."

"I need your help."

"With what?"

"I've forgotten how to fly."

James gasp sounded like a thousand screams as it echoed in the enervating room of a thousand people. Not a sound. Only that of a breath full gasp.

_Well, they wanted entertainment. They got it. Time for the final act, Peter, my boy._

"I can't believe what I'm hearing. Did you say that you don't remember how to fly?" he said, cupping his hand to his ear, dramatically looking astonished, as if what he was hearing was utter nonsense.

"I did."

Another sharp gasp and quick dismayed shake of his head, brought James to say,"Well this will not do. Don't you remember the four essential things to flyin'? Oh well, I shall tell ya again." he said throwing his hands up in pretend impatience.

"Number One, think of a wonderful thought. A happy thought. A glorious thought that shall give you the energy you need to fly."

"The next three are in one simple phrase. 'Faith, Hope, and Pixie Dust. Now where is Tinkerbell?"

"I remembered the Pixie dust part, sir." Peter said, bringing out a mini-brown suede pouch and shook it. It sounded like bells.

His mother's ornaments bells to be exact.

"Very good, now, pour some of the dust on yourself, and thinking of your happy thought, spread your wings out and...fly."

"Ok. Will do Peter." And with that Peter stood up on the violently shaking chandelier, and putting all his faith and hope in 'Peter Pan', he jumped....

Screams filled the once soliloquy appropriate room, as he fell towards the ballroom floor. Women turned into their husbands collars, and the daughters cried on Jack's worried shoulder. Men screamed suicide, George was holding his grandmother because she had done what was predicted. She fainted.

In the middle of the room, however, stood a man. A man who was truly Peter Pan at heart. Cocky. Insubordinate. Despicable. Kind. Generous... Perfect. A man who thought of this, not as a life or death situation, but as a game. The object of the game was to catch the flying, not falling boy. Because he was flying. It didn't matter if he looked like he was falling, and if the people below were stepping away, believing the worst. The boy wasn't believing the worst. He had his arms spread wide and a smile gracing his angelic face. He looked like an angel. A flying angel. His angel.

James, Peter Pan. Whatever name you like, stood with the same identical smile on his face as Peter's, and caught him securely in his arms, cradling him like a new born baby.

Applause.

They commended James with his superb catch, which saved Peter's life.

Revival.

George had finally gotten his grandmother to awake, and when she finally could stand straight on her own, she spotted James and walked quickly to him and her grandson.

Dad.

Nothing phased James' and Peter's minds as James' placed Peter onto his feet. The crowd could be booing, throwing tomatoes at them, jeering at them and calling them ignorant and foolish for their foolhardy actions. Peter's grandmother could be yelling and screaming until her head exploded causing her overinflated ego to splinter and shoot out in all different directions. Hell, Jack could be making out with one of the debutantes at the party. It didn't matter. What mattered was that James and Peter had secured a trust between them. A test of faith, in which they had both passed. Nothing else mattered, and nothing ever would. Because as long as the faith and hope and need was still there, the physical attributes, like the people, referred to as pixie dust, wasn't needed; wasn't required.

"Nice catch."

"Nice stunt work. You gave everyone a bit of a scare."

"You too?"

James smiled fondly at his worried inquisition.

"No, I knew I would catch you."

"I knew it too. I believed I could fly you know."

"An' ye did."

"I know."

They smiled at each other for a long time; Peter's grandmother was edging closer.

Finally Peter said, "I'll always believe in you Peter Pan." And as James kneeled down, Peter wrapped his arms around his neck and hugged him tightly and passionately.

This was life, James concluded. This was why people live. This was why people grow; to watch their children grow. To experience those moments of true relief and love towards someone they really cared about. To feel loved in return. The games would never be over for him and Peter, as they shouldn't. Because as long as he had Peter, and the rest of the boys, he realized he didn't need anything else. That was all he needed, and that was all he wanted. He needed them for his survival, and he realized, after that fateful test, they needed him too.

"I love you... Dad." Peter whispered those four words that James had been wishing to the stars to hear someday.

Tears sprung from their native spring in his eyes, as James pulled Peter from their embrace and looked into Peter's hazel eyes. They were red and tear filled too. But not with remorse, or sadness. Filled with something sweeter than an enchanting smile. Warmth and Love. And James smiled and was answered with a powerful one from Peter too. James opened his mouth....

Smack!

His face burned with a heat of upmost fury as he clutched his assaulted cheek from his spot on the floor to control the sting.

Challenge.

Mrs. Du Maurier's iced glazed marine eyes challenged James' acrimonious darkened to black ones.

He struggled to his feet and faced the rouge-cheeked banshee that had just dared to put her bony, revolting hand on him.

Battling with herself to remain calm, she faced Peter and said evenly, "Peter, go up to your room. No arguments. Now."

Peter turned to walk away but James grasped his arm and held him there.

"No. Stay." he retorted, his eyes never leaving hers.

"How dare you defy me."

"No, how dare you."

She sputtered slightly, "E-Excuse me?"

"No, excuse me. 'It is my turn to talk and your turn to listen.'"

He finally tore his eyes away from hers and said clear enough so everyone could hear him.

"Tis just a game to all you isn't it? To gossip and rant and rave about things that is of no concern and no justification to anyone. You all sit in your huge manors, commanding, whining and simpering over little things that if you think about it, are more _childish_ than even a _baby's_ incomprehensible speech. You all think that your money and your position and how much gossip you consume and retaliate, makes you _better_ than everyone else. Like everyone gives a shit what you think."

"You talk about reality, Mrs. Du Maurir, and how our boys, should be just like you all. Sitting around all day, doing nothing. Never thinking for yourselves, paying people with your wealth to flaunt your supposed 'intelligence'. Reflecting on it all now, I really wish I could have stayed a child forever. There lives are so simple, but enchanting all the same. Children's lives, to me, seem to be more appealing than this entire party's lives put together."

"You all think I crazy. Nuts. Should be locked up before I can do harm to myself or to others. Your entitled to that. Because of your ignorance. You all are so _blinded_ by trying to do everything right, that you miss the mark completely, and do everything wrong. You all think that children are the ignorant ones. Sometimes, But they're entitled. They're innocent. You all, on the other hand, no matter what you think, are the ignorant ones. The helpless...the pathetic. I know what you're probably thinking, I shouldn't toot my own horn, because I'm just like you. But, I not.

"Unlike you, I can tell the difference between my ass and my head. Unlike you, I know what is wrong and what is right. And I know that what you're trying to do to these children, is wrong. You may not think so. But I know so.

"But then again I'm crazy right. I wasn't a child once. I didn't have to go to these stupid parties, and deal with stupid, ignorant people, who thought they knew everything about me, where as, they didn't even know my name.

"Your right. I am the crazy one. And your all stuck in your perfect worlds, in your perfect circle. But you all know that what you do inside your circle, affects the unwanted...the children...the crazy."

"Mrs. Du Maurier," he said turning sharply back at her, amused slightly by her unnerved position.

"Yes, you do have some nerve. You have the nerve to expect me, a crazy person, to listen to an ignorant one, while said person blatantly fills my children's heads with notions of a reality so far-fetched, they'd say Peter Pan made it up as a sick game. You truly are a sick woman, and even better, and this one, will really cause your hair to recede.

He stared at her with a cocky smile, filled with amusement, that scared her as she waited on bated breath for him to shock her anymore than he already had.

"Your even more of a bitch than my dog."

And briskly walking passed her, with his head held defiantly high, he marched with an air of regalness up the stairs toward his bedroom door.

He changed his course to walk over the balcony, stare at the abashed faces that watched his exit, and smile wryly while saying,

"I hope you had a nice time. Come back soon."

The silence still held in the room like a funeral service as the door's echo slammed through the ears of all who was there.

Peter was the only one smiling.

A/N I hope you enjoyed it. R&R please. oh, by the way could someone please tell me the spelling of the grandmother's name. I think I must of spelt at least 12 different ways

Special Thanks to:

**Culumacilinte: Thanks a long pen name. I really glad that you understand where I was going with his longings. I hope you enjoy this new chapter.**

**PirateWench5309: I don't know. I trying to escape writers block and make this full-fledged story, but we'll see how it goes. Oh, and I'm glad you caught on to the whole Captain Jack Sparrow analogy. Thanks, I'm glad I impressed you.**

**JohnnyDEPPmaniac: Thanks. Glad you love it.**

**kay43: Here is your new update. Enjoy.**

**krystie jamison: I hope you went to the see the movie, it really is as fabulous as the critics claim. And the negative claimers, well screw them. Anyway, thank you for the compliment.**

**katesparrow: I hope the amount of time I spent on this was suspenseful enough for you.lol. Thank you for the complement. I glad that I know I at least portryed him well.**

**Chantela: Those are really great questions. For the first one yes, I did do some backround reading and am going to still be refering back to the "Peter and Wendy" story. After all it is a primary source. For your second question, I'm not really sure yet. I'll think about it. Thank you for comment.**

**JenAdri: Thank you. I try to make the reader actuallyimagine what they are reading. Enjoy.**

**showmethehobbit: Thank you for the review.**

**EvilDuckieof theBlackLagoon: I read some of your stories and they are really good, I just haven't gotten around to reviewing for them. I'm glad your enjoying the story so far.**

**Starlit Niphredi: Thank you for your comment on my writing.**

**chef13: I'm glad you liked the joke. I hope this is as good as you hope it can be.**

**Dawnie-7: I hope you had enoughKlenex. lol. Thank you**

**Gee Nay Pig: I'm soo sorry if I made you cry. I hope you enjoy this new chap.**


	4. Dreams of Wanting

**Neverland**

_Ch. Dreams of Wanting_

SLAM!!!

Hatred and relentless, uncontrolled anger coursed through him as he stripped off haphazardly and perhaps, what could be even considered, as parlously, his too suffocating, painful reminders of the evening's events.

He reached for his crimson silk bathroom, and, feeling in the need to unwind in the temporary, but , oh so tempting, world of relaxation, he turned the bronze brass leading to his pleasantly inviting bath tub.

Letting the water fill, he stared at the faucet lazily, spontaneously thinking of waterfalls.

Cascading waterfalls that seemed to be limitless. They flowed into pools of crystal water that was so clear that it seemed almost...deceitful. But how could it, when it was so pure.. so perfect....

Clink. Clink.

His calming thought process was rudely interrupted by a sloshing, pings of dripping, which revealed that the capacity of the tub had been surpassed some time ago, was relieving its self and seeking space, all over his bathroom floor.

"Jesus." James cursed and hurried, while trying not to slip clumsily over the invading water, to turn off the freely flowing faucet.

He surveyed the damage, and seeing that it was minor, drained some of the water in the tub, so that it would cause more to flow out when he added more mass to the tub, and decided that he would try and clean up the rest so as not impose more work on the maids.

Sinking himself into the long awaited, sensual abyss, he let a satisfied sigh escape him as he rested leisurely against the wall of the basin, trying to make himself stretched out and more comfortable.

What a mess he had finally made of things. He had tried so hard to keep that entire party a completely grand affair. Laughter...Drinks...Smiles. But there was no word to express the look on Emma du Maurier's face when he lashed out at her.

He paused and then thought for a smile. If she got any redder, she might have exploded from the intense pressure of potent fury.

He finished scouring himself of those more then dirt, he climbed out of the tub and drained the water, and blew out the candle.

Changing into breeches and a matching off-white collared shirt, he pulled back his comforters of satin, and clambered in.

He was tired, but he hadn't put the kids to bed. But at this moment he had found, what most of us would call it, our perfect sleeping spot. The one that, once found, causes us to become lazy and our limbs to become like water. So, feeling all of these symptoms, James found himself being magnetically and mentally bound to the bed. Oh well, well when in doubt, play along.

So he embraced his weakness and tendency to sleep and drifted off to his, hopefully, uninterrupted dreams.

Before you go into Neverland, you must know one thing. It varies each time, and to every other person. It reflects the moods in which you went to sleep in and it even obeys your own demands of contents. Neverland is the one place where James Barrie felt safe in, and, judging by his day, that was the first place in which he wanted to end up.

So obeying his commands, his Neverland was working at top speed to give their customer, or in their words 'visitor', what he wanted.

And smiling in his sleep, Neverland got their request.

He wanted to see...

Sylvia.

A/N I know this is extremely short compared to my last ones, especially the third one which happened to be seventeen pages on Microsoft, but I needed an idea as to how Syliva is going to important to this story, so I came up with this. I'll update soon me hearties. R&R savvy.

**_Special Thanks:_**

**_Sam's Cotton Sock's : Love your Neverland fanfic by the way. Anyway, sorry for cursing in front of the children, but...well I really don't have an excuse for writing it. I was just in the mood. Thank you for the review. Oh, is your name, based on Benny and Joon?_**

**_Chantela: Thank you for the information. I appreciate it._**

**_krystie jamison: I'm glad you finally saw the movie, and thank you for loving my description._**

**_Dawnie-7: Thank you for the compliment, a lot of my friends like this line too. Thanks for the review_**

**_RangerGirl: Thank for the review. I'm glad you liked James lash out._**


	5. James Neverland

**Neverland**

_**A/N Special thank you to all those who have reviewed me. You guys are great**. **You keep inspiring me to write more. I still don't really have an essential plot, but hopefully soon I will be cured of that. Enjoy this new chapter.**_

_**Quote of the Day**_

"Just believe."

-J.M. Barrie

Finding Neverland

_Ch. 5 _

_James' Neverland_

In life, which is encountered and unavoidable in humans, you never really realize how important and meaningful something is, until its gone.

How could something so innocent and so meaningless to many, could make you feel as if there was no other home then this mysterious land.

_Neverland_

This land full of lush, foreign, trees, opulent in fruit and majestic in appearance.

A land full of fertile soil that wasn't mucky and sticky and caused your shoes to sink through.

A land where there was a potent perfume, that when reaching the senses, could not be described by any other definition than, sensual. This scent was cluttered and crammed with all those delectable scents that could be encountered on close examination with the unknown. This scent was one that wasn't expected, let alone known, but none the less appreciated. Invited. Welcomed.

There were vast crystal lakes and coves full of secret treasures hidden beneath the surface of a pirate's faithful cache: the water. The water was so clear, that God would say it was truly miraculous . Unlike the sewage water found commonly in London after it rained, which was quite often, this water was regal enough to satisfy a king, but penniless to satisfy the poorest pauper. A mere drop of it would sustain you for the rest of your life, and the only other times it would be drunk, would be for sheer pleasure. Lining the shore was the finest sand that it was suspected that God grained and placed the sand along the beach himself. It was welcoming and as comfortable as a quilt of satin as it cascades over your skin. Seashells of princely influence adorned the already perfect sand, and if you picked one up, you could swear that you heard the faintest ballad of a mythical _femme fatale_, or in other words, a seductive enchantress.

The there was the change in the day. As in the human world, time passes normally, but sunrises and sunsets are more beautifully, more picturesque, then those in reality. Their colors hold no limits, and like a mood ring, changes. Not only into those original sunset colors, like the regal crimson, the lush pink, and the generous orange, but also there seems to be some that are called the 'in-betweens', who hold all these colors into a superfluous, but enlightening enchantment. There is no name for them, but even if you could come up with one, that name wouldn't even come close to justifying its beauty.

Like all places, with the exception of some of the planets that revolve around the sun, there are various inhabitants. Mystical creatures such as deceiving, temperamental fairies and sonnet-filled sirens all the shades of the rainbow, glittering like precious jewels of the sun. Animals varying from your typical, but no less known, raging lion and beastly crocodile to your fluffiest bunny rabbit and meek chipmunk., to those of the unusual, with various trunks, horns, and all the mixed body parts that would linger on the drawings of a two-year-old.

They flock around their home, careless and leisurely, for time is just a toy with them.

Then there are the different colonies, or provenances in _Neverland. _The first occupants, who were here since _Neverland_ was created, are the Redskins. They occupy the top right of _Neverland's _imaginary map They spend day after day chasing the lost boys away from their grounds and their nights celebrating. With their faces painted in war-like paint and their skin only half covered, seemed as if they were like an obligated militia; ready at any moment for that first instinct of foul play. But this routine is only on special occasions. The majority of their time and effort is spent on their enemies, which just happens to be the second suit.

Pirates. Buccaneers. The dregs of the sea. Water-rats.

Any name that you could think of that would describe a vile, dissolute human being, including those that would not be appropriate in the presence of a lady, would be the perfect synonym of that word that had and has people still gasping in horror. _Pirates. _

These creatures occupy the lower left side of _Neverland,_ where their port, town, and ship are docked. They usually spend their days, ransacking, pillaging, pilfering, and in easier terms, stealing anything they can get their grimy hands on, and whistle a tune as they proceed with their greedy work. Their nights are usually spent in the taverns in the town, enjoying the vast amounts of alcohol, participating in contests which usually ended when someone passed out from exceeding intoxication. Pleasurable company never lacked, and the women seemed only to eager to tumble around for a spell, and then walk, their payments jingling merrily, searching for their own pursuits. Yes, it was the life to be a pirate.

However, they did have more challenging and demanding actions on their agenda.

Now it was said, that there are a numerous, no, _infinite_ amount of books on the subject of pirates. I imagine that when you go to a library and you look on the subject, you find that the intention of finding the perfect reference was harder than you originally thought. But, it is also said, that not many pirates became, captains.

A captain, is a fine title, and to a pirate, it is like a lifeline. This title is like being crowned a king to a pirate. Captains, from the obvious duties, like commanding a ship and being a born leader, ensure that, whatever they want, whatever they need, is taken care of; is done. That is the power of pirate. They go to any means necessary to get what they want. And it said that in a book, somewhere, I couldn't really tell you where, there is a list of the most infamous pirate captains in history.

From Black Beard, to Read Beard, to Long John Silver, to Captain Jack Sparrow, you name it.

But, the one captain whose the most demanding, the most unsatiable, and the most determined to get what he wanted and expected, was none other than Captain Jas Hook, or Captain James Nathaniel Hook as his signature. He was as fierce as the hook that graced the presence of where is left hand had once been, and twice as cunning. His means were met by the ultimate loyalty of his crew and he knew that they would never argue over any of his decisions, and if they did, well, let's just say, he had a few games up his sleeves for impertinence.

And he found that they shared the same lust that he did, which had cost him to suffer from a paranoia, in a sense. He just couldn't control himself when it came to finding those lost boys. And even worse, trying to seek revenge from that rooster-crowing, cocky-faced, always laughing that chimed laugh, Peter Pan.

_Peter and the lost boys._

Their talents and adventures are renowned everywhere, although, except for the cocky boy Peter, they humbly accepted it. Their days are lived to the fullest with a routine. Whether it be a new game, a fearful adventure, a cooling swim in the vast depths of the lagoon, or just a simple thing as sleeping the day away. It mattered not to them, for they were children, and time passed just like a simple breeze caressing their faces like the mother they never had.

They chased no one. They just fooled. They just had fun. But they always seemed to get in the stickiest of situations, but they were fearless. Why. Because they had nothing to fear but fear itself. And in this instance, that fear, which was impossible in _Neverland_, was growing up.

The Redskins and the Pirates fear adversaries, but that's expected. They are adults. But children...they are fearless. I guess that's why they envied them so. Because they didn't believe in that sometimes trifle, but always persistent, reality that showed that something could happen to them. Possibly that day. Possibly not. Possible not at all. But whenever it happened, the boys would all shake a sigh and shrug a shoulder, and just forget it. Simply forget it.

You know how hard that is? To go through a turmoil in life and simply discard it forever? No wonder they envy them. I do to.

The last occupant that is the most important element to this _Neverland_, is the ticking crocodile

_Ticking crocodile?_ Yes I actually did say, _ticking crocodile_. How can that be you ask? Well, I'll tell you.

One day, Peter Pan and Captain James Hook was fighting, as usual (as usual as it was in _Neverland_ anyway) when a lonely crocodile stumbled upon their fervent presence and stared hungrily at them, I guess deciding which fighter to eat first. Anyway, Peter was winning it seemed, and as soon as Hook let his guard down, Peter took this opportunity to teach hook a lesson, and cut off his hand. Hook, writhing in agony, watched dumb-foundedly as the petulant boy threw his beloved hand to the eager crocodile.

Peter then called him a 'codfish' which further enticed the crocodile's lust, and from then on the crocodile chased after Hook and his fellow buccaneers ever since.

Now the last little _ticking_ detail. Hook, tired of the crocodile's relentless attempts, threw a clock down at the beast, and the ignorant thing ate it. But this did not stop him. So now, when the crocodile is nearby, Hook I given a sixty second warning you could say. That's why Hook is still alive, the croc hasn't caught him, since he inadvertently warns him each time. Time is chasing after Hook, and he's only staying ahead because time doesn't exist in this place. And it seems, neither does common sense.

Last, but certainly not at all least, the most enchanting and eye boggling feature in _Neverland_ is ...flowers.

Simply flowers.

Their colors...of the purest form.

Their texture...of the smoothest silk.

Their scent....of the most scandalous and yet necessary fragrance.

Scattered throughout the land.

Lilies, as fresh and as pure as snow first fall.

Lavenders, as purple as a king's cloak.

Hyacinths, their bell shaped leaves, seem to ring with a familiar, yet personified melody.

Daises, their simple nature masked by a feeling childish giddiness.

And roses, the flower of love, the color of the most darkest of wines, blooming like a fine year.

But these seemed liked thorns in a tangle of weeds compared to the most beautiful, succulent, glorious flower that had recently bloomed into _Neverland's_ presence.

There she was, sitting in the perfect sand, her bare feet tucked underneath her. A god-like sunset sinking for sleep behind her. The crystal water mirroring her angelic complexion.

And a rose, the most forbidden and striking flower of all...

In the palm of her seraphic hand.

**A/N Did you like it? I just need to describe Neverland in a more detailed manner, since James is going to be visiting it quite often enough. I hope you enjoyed the honorable mention of Captain Jack Sparrow. I just couldn't help meself. Read and Review savvy. Tell me what you think.**

**_Special Thank you to_**

**_Italian-Corsair: Thank for your two wonderful reviews. I'm glad your enjoying my fic. That's the point after all matey. Oh, and I can't wait to see an update, so hurry up. (lol) Just kidding, but please update soon, before I proceed with my previous plans in stealing James. (Lol)_**

**_H.M Chandler: I am honored that you have put me on your favorite authors list. And just for that, and because I love yours so far, I putting you on mine._**

**_Sam's Cotton Socks: Wow that's a creative name. I luv Sam too. He's such a... free spirit. And not to metion he's cute too when he does that roll routine. And that's a cute Michael Jackson analogy. _**

**_Dawnie-7: Thanks for the compliment. And thanks for being my first reviewer for my Secret Window fic._**


	6. Sylvia

1**Neverland**

**A/N I suddenly came upon an idea so here's another chapter for you. Enjoy**

_Ch. 6 _

_Sylvia_

She was just as he had remembered her. Her hair as golden and god-like as the imposing sunset that settled lazily behind her, mimicking the way it cascaded over her shoulders. Her eyes still the same crystal ocean blue that melted his heart and spread that warmth to the rest of his body, rendering him senseless with goose bumps inadvertently spreading onto the surface. Her lips still full and perfect for breathless kisses. Her luscious curves causing his throat to go uncomfortable dry. And finally her graceful smile that always made him wish that she was still alive to give it to him. She was a vision. A vision that could never be depicted on a single portrait for it would never be the same. And why would you want to, when a memory was so much more effective. So much more preservable. Although a picture may say a thousand words and be precious to the beholder, James knew that a memory lasted a lifetime. And he knew that the way she looked right now, would never fade from his memory.

"Hello James." she said in that sultry voice that he had been longing to hear for...he didn't even remember anymore.

"Hello Sylvia." he answered, his voice quivering excitedly as he reached for the hand that was unoccupied by the beauteous rose, and kissed the very center of her second and third knuckle. Her hand was comfortably warm and inviting. .

"I've missed you." she said, a hint of sadness edged her voice.

"I'd be a fool if I said otherwise." he replied in good humor and she smiled brightly again.

"So, I heard about the party."

"From who?"

"Peter's prayers." She said simply, and then James knew.

Ever since James had told him that his mother was in the stars and that he could talk to her, it seemed that every night, Peter was cemented to the windowsill. Some nights, more often than not, James would open the door a crack, long after the boys had been put to bed, and see Peter, kneeling at the sill, and whispering to the stars. His conversations varied according to the events of the day, but every night he would finish by saying, 'Love you mom. Everything's not the same with you gone.' And James would morosely and silently close the door and shuffle back to his room, thinking the exact same thing.

"Bravo." she said surprisingly, applauding him as well.

James starred too stunned to speak. Finally he managed to blurt out, "Wha'?"

"I commend you on your talents. Peter Pan would be proud."

He chuckled nervously, "I still don't know what you mean."

"I mean for finally showing those rich snobs what they had coming. I don't think I've seen my mother look more furious then she did when you insulted her. It looked more like you had throttled her and proceeded in suffocating her then jeering at her." she paused briefly, and with a gratified smirk she added, " It was quite satisfying, actually."

James smiled fully, and laughter graced his mouth, as they both chimed together. He hadn't laughed like that in the longest time. Well, no, not so long. He had laughed like that when they had chased Porthos for his shoes. How could he have forgotten? It seemed whenever he thought, heard, or, now, saw, Sylvia, he seemed to forget a lot of things.

They were both breathless when she asked inquisitively and it seemed, almost worried-like, "So how are the boys doing?" And then she began rambling off motherly things, that James only got bits and pieces of.

"How are they doing in school?-"

"Does remember to take his glasses off at night?-"

"Is Peter writing anymore?-"

"Does Jack still chase after that Gallagher girl?-"

"Did you remember that they all need their cough syrup before bedtime?-"

"Have you-?"

"Wait!" He said, holding up his hand as if trying to block the rest of the words out of her feverish mouth. "I can't answer your questions all at once. One at time, and perhaps even a wee bit slower, if it's not too much trouble."

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have rambled like that. It's just...." she sighed heavily before continuing in a more melancholy tone, " I miss them so much, and I just wish I could see them again, hold them in my arms and pretend I'm not-" she stopped herself, her face portraying her evident pain as tears threatened to spill down her cheeks.

"Hey, hey. It's all right," he soothed as she bowed her head in embarrassment, trying unsuccessfully in not letting him see her crying. "I know, I know. They miss you too."

"We all miss you." he said, as he lifted her chin so that she gaze back into his chocolate eyes.

Her eyes were so glorious. Even with the unwanted redness that came with the onslaught of tears. Her sea glass eyes gazed helplessly into his chocolate orbs and it finally it struck him as to what seemed different about her. That matchless glow that had puzzled him into frustration until this very moment.

It seemed as if all her worries, all the burdens she had carried in life, had been swept away, leaving behind a signature glow. A radiant force that enveloped him into a warm place, where there were no consequences that were to be payed for, no meddlesome people who twisted your lives into twisted gyves and then laughed at you mercilessly for the way your life had ended up like. No troubles. No faults. Just like her. Perfection. Paradise.

But not his. Never his paradise. Never his to treasure for himself. Because there would always

someone, in life and in death, that would be competing for her sole attention alone, and force him to back down into submission. In life it was her mother and the rest of his unwanted reality. In death...well, it was simply just that, death. _Death_ had taken her from him. _Death_ had ruined everything.

_Sylvia's POV_

_His eyes...just like chocolate. Just like happiness. Just like love._

_She admitted now to herself._

_She loved him. She always did. And she knew now that she always would._

_Of course she would always love her husband. He was her first love. He was the one who taught her how to love and how to know when you were loved back. She didn't know all the secrets they were to love. No one does. If she did, she would have had the courage to tell that James a long time ago, before she had gone. Before she had gone to Neverland._

_She loved everything about him. His lips were what one could call poetic; the way it seemed to describe the perfect simile or a particularly enchanting metaphoric phrase. His smile that always seemed effortless, never strained, and seemed to magnetically pull a sense in the back in your mind to smile back, no matter if you had the worst day in your life._ _His face that was sharply chiseled, like his high cheekbones, and his jutting chin. His long neck and his accentuated collar bone, which still was distinguishable despite his collared shirt._

_ She loved his entire physique, which, she thought, no breathing women could deny, was a fine structure and example of an accomplished man. His arms and legs were long but were not to lanky, his hips were slightly curvaceous , and his hands, oh god his hands, were like God's masterpiece. They were like a poet's hands; long and limber, they seemed to be able to string a few words or chords out of a finely tuned instrument with the greatest of ease. And his eyes. Again, she couldn't look away. They were a endless void of happiness. A shimmer of enticement. A warmth that echoed violently and caused her to shudder even on the warmest of days. A freedom that she knew she could no longer share. It seemed to her, that Michelangelo was wrong in his interpretations. David was not the perfect form of a man. To her it seemed, Mister James Matthew Barrie was. Flawless. Paradise. She saw paradise in his eyes, every time he smile at her, every time he laughed._

_But death had taken that away from her. Death had ruined everything. _

_Death had snatched her boys away. And now she had finally realized she would never see them again. It finally hit her. She had become so careless and overcome with happiness in Neverland, that she forgot that this place, although perfect, was the final barrier between her and true happiness. There would always be Neverland, but how could it be hers if she never heard her children's voices, never watched them as they slept, never reprimanded them for what they did wrong, never comforted them as they cried. And ultimately, never saw them grow up._

_That was what struck at her the most. Never seeing them grow and live their life to the fullest. Never knowing what there fate will bring them. Never knowing if they lived. _

_If this was paradise, why was she longing for something she couldn't have?_

Regular POV

Tears sprung back again to her native spring and poured freely down her cheeks as she felt James, unresistantly, pull her into his consoling arms, and rub her back in rhythmic strokes as she spent her long awaited tears.

No words were passed. No thoughts were discovered. It wasn't needed. The sole feeling of each other's embrace was enough.

James willed himself not to cry. To cry would be to admit that he was defeated. Defeated by his sole adversary, _Death. _He wouldn't surrender to its power. If Sylvia couldn't come back, he would accept it, but he wouldn't stop believing that there was something good in life after death. That a person never really left you, and was with you for always; for eternity.

Sated, she pulled back from James arms, and rested her hands on his shoulders. She started intently in his eyes and said, " Never forget me. Promise me that.."

"Sylvia I-"

"Promise me."

His eyes, never faltering and full of more truth than could be comprehended, he replied

"I promise."

And then he woke up.

His eyes searching for what he knew wasn't there. She was gone. His angel had disappeared. Spread her wings and flew. Flew off into the distance to some uncharted world, leaving him behind.

And he was back. Back in his own time. Back to his reality. Back to where time passed agonizingly and presently on every bone and sense in James' body.

And then James' remembered what the recent Ms. Snow , had said to him after she had witnessed his play.

_"It's seems like time is chasing after us after all, doesn't it."_

She couldn't more correct. Every time he wished he could crawl back into Neverland's protective arms, and hide amongst his own dreams and fantasies, there was time, rudely and figuratively knocking him on the head and reminding him, that you can't escape. It gets us all in the end.

Especially children. Time and fate attack children the worst. Children don't realize how precious time truly is. A year...A month....A week....A day....A hour....A moment. All these components stashed in the back of our brains, where spiders and cobwebs occupy space, and when forget about them. But a year and a day can be equally compared. Because one could say this day is going by slow, passing like a calm wind, and say it repeatedly over everyday, until they look back and realize a week had gone by. A month. And even a year. Time waits for no one. Time is death. And time cannot be stopped.

Time is the reason why mothers weep for the loss of their sons and daughters. Time is the reason why children regretfully sleep. Time is the reason why the ignorant grow wise and why the young grown old. Time is the reason why we start pretending. Time in it's circled orb, is the reason why Neverland exists. It is an escape...

Against time.

And that is why children must believe in Neverland as long as they can. For when they don't, they accept the inevitable. The end of childhood, the first hint of realization, is the beginning of the end.

Springing upon a new idea, James jumped out of bed and rushed over to his desk reaching for a pen and his leather binder.

He began to write. The words flowing out like silk. Thus this was to be the introduction of his story, "Peter and Wendy."

_'All children, except one, grow up. They soon know that they will grow up, and the way Wendy knew was this. One day when she was two years old she was playing in a garden, and she plucked another flower and ran with it to her mother. I suppose she must have looked rather delightful, for Mrs. Darling put her hand to her heart and cried, 'Oh, why can't you remain like this for ever!' This was all that passed between them on the subject, but henceforth Wendy knew that she must grow up. You always know after you are two. Two is the beginning of the end.' _

Placing his pen down he walked slowly over to his windowsill and stared at the stars.

So beautiful...like Sylvia.

_" Never forget me. Promise me that.."_

_"Sylvia I-"_

_"Promise me."_

_"I promise."_

Time had ended it all. Time had taken away what he wanted most in his life. Time had taken away love.

Time had taken away her.

But that didn't mean he had to forget her. He would always keep his promise. As long as he lived.

As long as he still believed.

A solitary tear slipped from the clutch in his eye, but James didn't notice, because he was talking to...

The stars.


	7. Apologies From Pirates

**Neverland**

_Ch. 7 _

_Apologies From Pirates_

**A/N Hi everyone. Sorry I haven't updated in a while, I hope you enjoy this chapter. **

Pacing back and forth, to and fro.

A dog would be impressed by the trail he was implanting into the floor by his constant treading.

Nervous.

He had really never dwelled on nervous anxiety when it came to the simple matter of talking to someone.

Apologize.

This thought repeatedly ran through his head. To apologize, to him, would be a great adventure. He wondered if David felt this exact churning in his stomach before he faced Goliath. It certainly would seem logical. Then again, David was up against a colossal brute of a monster, where as, James was sweating bullets over an old gargoyle such as Mrs. du Maurier. Thinking of this, he realized with a slight smirk that his position was rather comical, if not hilarious.

Why should he be so rigid and fidgety over something as simple and as amusing as apologizing to Emma. He realized last night that, although she certain deserved what had been handed to her, she didn't deserve to have been embarrassed. He certainly wasn't, but then again he hadn't given one bit of a horse's ass for that party. But she had, and he knew exactly what it was like to feel elated and proud of one's own accomplishments and then have some incarnated devil puncture it with their very own horns. Believe him, she had done it to him a few fair times. But he wasn't going to diminish his character to her level.

So with his mind made up, he swiftly grabbed the door knocker and knocked sharply three times.

Once he saw her, however, he wanted to turn and run.

Her eyes, usually puffy and wrinkly with her own onslaught of coming age, were today, even more so, and taking on an unflattering ring of red, showing that she had been crying. Her usually tightly pulled back auburn bun, was surprisingly messy and untamable, as if she had used a pitchfork to comb her hair instead of her extremely expensive toilette kit, that she carried around everywhere in her black leather pocketbook that she had recently acquired in Paris, France.

"Yes Mr. Barrie? What can I do for you today?" her voice, haggard and harsh as if she had not used it in a long while and the sound felt awkward in her throat.

"Good Mornin' to ya Mrs. du Maurier. Did ye sleep well last night?" he asked politely, trying to make small conversation in light of his current situation.

"Better than expected." she retorted, and he noticed that her eyes slightly flared with a fire that he knew was his own doing.

"Well, that's good then."

The silence that followed was slightly unnerving and James' heart began thundering rather loudly and banged harshly against his chest. He worriedly wondered if her hearing was still keen and if she had heard it too.

But it seemed she hadn't, for she asked, clearly impatient, "What is the purpose for your knocking so soundly on my door, Mr. Barrie?"

He paused, clearly trying to form his words in a rationally articulate way, his eyebrows knitting in concentration.

"Well, Emma." he noticed her slightly shift her weight to her other foot and a small sigh escape her already impatient mouth .

"I just came to tell you I'm sorry." he said meekly, portraying a small child being scolded by his mother, staring idly at his shoes.

"What?" she said, not with anger, but with utter confusion.

He looked up quickly, causing a CRIK to sound in his neck, but he ignored the spasm as he stared at her, with that same puzzlement she mirrored.

She stared at him as if he had grown tree heads and begun speaking in Chinese.

"What d'ya mean 'what?'"

"Well why are you apologizing?'

"I would think it would be obvious."

"Oh..." realization hitting her square in the face, " You mean the party."

"What d'ya think I meant? Of course I meant the party."

"Well then please come in. It seems awfully ridiculous for you to be standing out in the hall like this.

So, obediently, he walked passed her, as she closed the door soundly behind her.

" Would you please take a seat Mr. Barrie, whilst I make us some tea?"

Not arguing he walked quietly toward the leather arm chair by the unlit fireplace and stared at the crone as she poured him some tea from the tray on her bedside table.

"Sugar or milk, Mr. Barrie?"

"Two lumps of sugar please."

She then procured two _tasses_ of tea, and handed on to James, alongside a saucer.

"Here you go."

"Thanks very much." But before he put lips to it, he hesitantly pulled them away, for a fear that was unrecognizable had coursed through him. She wouldn't...would she. It was unthinkable.

But, then again...

"I haven't poisoned it, Mr. Barrie."

Pulling abruptly from his thoughts, he shook his head spastically and said, " I'm sorry."

"You hesitated. I haven't poisoned it. Watch." she switched cups with him and drinking pointedly from the cup.

"You can drink from that one, Mr. Barrie. It still has two lumps of sugar. You like it the same way I do."

He still hesitated. He wondered if she had anticipated that he would think that she would poison his cup and so instead, she poisoned her cup, so when she switched the two cups, he would really have the poisoned cup. And he also noticed that she hadn't drunken from her cup as soon as she had gotten it.

"Oh really, Mr. Barrie. I didn't poison any of them. Your being quite rude and silly."

He drank obediently, but still reluctantly, and he found that his predictions were proved false. Unless of course the poison was a slow one, then he was screwed anyway.

"See, nothing to be worried about."

He smiled slightly, but was still uneasy.

"First off Mr. Barrie, you should not be apologizing to me. It should be I, who should be apologizing to you."

Unbelieving what he was hearing, his attention suddenly became very loyal to Mrs. du Maurir.

"I was very..._harsh,_ on my actions toward you and the boys. I should have listened to all of you and your opinions and thoughts. Instead I was selfish and only cared on what I wanted. I'm terribly sorry, for treating you this way."

James was so shocked that he had to press a hand to his chin to his mouth to close it.

"I've always been this way toward you. I guess it was because I was so jealous that you and Sylvia always got on so well together, and I was greatly jealous, of her attentions always focused on you. I believed that she should have been more focused on what was best for her and the children, when, in reality, you were what was best for them."

"When her husband died, I thought that Sylvia would never smile again. She would move through the house like she was an unwelcome spectral spirit more than that she actually lived there. Whenever I came over, I'd see the house in such chaos that I'd have the urge to just turn around and leave, but one day, I saw her clutching her husband's picture to heart and crying with her face looking so helpless and lost, that I felt that it was my duty to make sure my daughter and my grandsons were never hurt like that again, even if it meant pushing people away."

She stared at James, and he saw tears falling freely down her face, and noticed she was unashamed of them.

"And then you came. You and your silly notions and awfully tacky costumes. Everyday, I'd watch you as you got closer and closer to the hearts of my grandchildren and especially Sylvia.

" I was afraid that she would forget her husband entirely and that she had once loved him. It seemed she had moved on, and I wasn't ready for her too. Because I was coward, and thought that if she forgot about him...that she would...forget... about me too." he voice broke into hysterics as she buried her face in her hands and let go all the pain she had been holding deep inside her for a long time.

James got up, and unabashedly, pulled Emma into his arms as he sat on the floor, pulling her down with him.

She cried, for seemed like forever, on James' clean shirt, but he didn't mind.

He no longer felt anger for this woman. He no longer thought she would poison him. She was no longer Captain Hook to him, but perhaps he could still imagine her that way.

When he talked to her, and heard her tartly respond in that brass and haughty voice, that made him believe that she had been struck with a broomstick to _'straighten her out'_, as what could be appropriately said, he believed and envisioned her as a cutthroat captain, who had never known the meaning of mercy, and was brought up with the notion of making life miserable for anyone who encountered her. But, holding her in his arms, he realized that she was just a woman. A frail... compassionate... hurting, woman. She only acted that way, because she never knew any other way to handle what she was going through. She probably saw him, as someone who was also like a pirate. Someone who was taking everything she had worked so hard on, and taking it all away from her.

He didn't want that. He would never do that to anyone.

She was certainly a character he would never forget, and he believed, that neither the boys nor Sylvia would forget her either.

Feeling her pull away from him, he stared back into her swollen hazel eyes and told her.

" Apology accepted. But now that your finished, I have a few words to say."

"When I first met you, I thought, this woman must have had a terrible life to act this way. But, reflecting on what you just told me, I realized that your not a terrible person. Your just hurting. And I don't think I've been helping things by acting the way I have been.

"I just want to tell you, that I'm truly sorry for hurting you and further more embarrassing you for your _own_ opinions on how the boys should be raised. Heavens knows your probably exactly what the boys need.

"But, I'm not leaving. And I'm not stopping in what I believe in for those boys. So trust me, there will be more times than I can count or imagine, that we will probably experience the thrilling urge to rip each other's 'eads off. But, I just want to let you know, that I respect you, and that I don't think Sylvia will ever forget a character such as you. I know I won't."

"Thank you Mr. Barrie."

"Your welcome Mrs. du Maurier."

He got up from the floor, grabbed her hand and gave it a pleasant kiss, and then turned and walked for the door.

" And James?"

He turned swiftly on his heal to face her as she was getting off the floor and rearranging the position of her skirts.

"I insist, that you call me Emma in private. After all, I do have my threatening position to hold whilst around the children.

"Indeed. But I also have a request."

He smiled ruefully at her showing his full potential of charm.

"You _must_ call me James at all times. For I wouldn't want to give the children the thought that I might actually be rendering myself to your will."

"My, my, James, you certainly are despicable."

"Just think of it as a request from a pirate."

He placed his hand on the doorknob again, and pulled the door open, but turned around in the opening and said, "Oh Emma."

"Yes James."

"I believe ye lied to me. And pirates don't like being lied to." he said seriously, in a voice hardly like his own and adapting a dialect similar to that of a seaman.

"Whatever do you mean?"

"Well, m'lady," he said pressing his palms together in a apologetic prayer, "not meaning to be disrespectful of course, but I believe that you do not take your tea the same as me, seeing as when I drank out of your cup, there only happened to be one lump of sugar." And bowing in an exaggerated and almost as if replicating his sly smile, he closed the door.

And he left her there, muttering pleasantly , "Bloody pirate," as he sauntered idly toward his fellow crew members' lodging to pursue more satisfying antics.

**A/N Did you like? I;m hoping to reach 50 this chapter so please RR savvy.**

**Thank you's to:**

_**LaryChan: Glad you like it**_

**_Dawnie-7: Thank you, first off for being a very faithful reviewer. And I'm glad you agree with my notion on his hands. They are so B-E-A-T utiful.Thanks for the review_**

**_H.M Chandler: Thank you very much (takes a bow) and please update soon_**


	8. FairiesChildrenPoppycock

**Neverland**

_Ch. 8_

_Fairies...Children...Poppycock_

"All right, I want two lights flashing down from the middle of the ceiling where it connects with the balcony."

"Yes Mister Barrie."

"And I want that light to be lifted a quarter of an inch higher Higgins! Tinkerbell has to have a clear elegance on the stage!"

"Certainly, Mr. Barrie."

"Daddy I-"

"Not now Michael."

Just a typical day in the actor's studio. Where the usual line of actors, actresses, stage crew, light technicians, and Charles Frohman, the studio's manger, and Mr. James Barrie himself, all fell into the captivating hole of the oncoming slaught of holiday performances. Since Christmas was on its way, James had decided (Charles had imposed) that James production of "The Boy Who Never Grew Up," should be annually done, since it was just a huge fortune of fame and renown the previous year.

So, conveniently, not given enough warning or ample time, the entire crew was working at top speed in order to successfully execute at the set standards of six performances that week alone; two on Christmas night.

James very well couldn't leave the children by themselves, as their grandmother chose the opportune time to go shopping for the boys Christmas vestments, so he was obliged to bring them along. Not that he didn't enjoy their company. Heavens no! He just hated the fact that they were stuck watching him during the times when he was most agitated and unavailable for their own questions and problems and because he was being bombarded with his own. And not to mention the fact that he awoke with a terrible headache and chest congestion that he was nearly ready to snap the oncoming slaughterers into the pieces of wood they assembled for their stage props.

"James, could I have a word?" Charles asked him, and James wearily got up.

_Great, just what I need. A critic._

"Yes Charles, what is it?"

"Do you really think your boys should be dressing up as pirates and dancing around your makeshift pirate ship and fake water?" he said, his eyes cringing and shadowing into obvious annoyance.

"Wha'?" he snipped back in impatience and turned around and saw his four boys, transformed into what he saw as the most fearsome renegades of piracy ever to be concocted. The newest recruits aboard Captain James Hook's dastardly cutthroat crew.

_Yes. They would be perfect. Authentic. Maybe even-_

"James." Charles said, knowing full well that James had been ignoring his protests for the last five minutes, as he waved his playbill in front of his vision.

"Oh, yes, right, right, right . . . "

"Boys!"

Immediately, as if surged through with the most perilous electric shock, the boys stopped their pretend charade and looked guiltily back at their father.

The thing that the boys feared most of all was not what most people would guess. Not their grandmother's fury, nor the conclusion that they would have to grow up one day. No. It was the fact that James could be angry at them. Could possibly yell at them? That's what scared them. For because when someone rarely does something, the reaction found on the receiving person or opposition is usually one of dramatic emotion. For instance, since Mrs. du Maurir always was cross with them and always took the appropriate time to discipline, the boys always had the frame of thought to take immediate action, such as hiding. But, since James rarely, if ever, took his anger out on the boys, it was embedded in their minds that he never would. And so, like so few times before, the boys stood at a complete stand still, scarcely breathing, hearts pounding furiously in their ears, and all the while, as their guardian walked stiffly toward them along the crimson velvet carpeted steps, furious thoughts exploded in their mind such as, "What did I do?" "Is he upset?" "What is he going to do?"

"Boys." He said in a grave manner that cause Peter to gulp loudly.

He smiled suddenly and leaned forward and said," How would ya like te be a play?"

Their faces lit into that childish glow of excitement and they rushed toward him and gave him a huge embrace.

"Really Dad?" George said with amazed doubt.

"Of course George. Why not?" James answered with a smile, and almost hugged them again, when a voice of pure agitation rang in his ears.

"James."

He looked up, and saw a not so pleased Charles staring back at him from his resting place on the floor,

"Come here."

He obediently responded and leaned in toward Charles beckoning finger, which indicated for him to move in closer, so he could whisper in his ear.

"James, do you really think this a good idea?"

"Why not? I thought of it didn't I?"

"Yes, of course you did James but-"

"But what?" James interrupted, but said this with a smile that almost looked apologetic. But if you saw the dark pools of chocolate that had erupted into fierce anger that looked if to dare Charles into toying with him, you would know his intentions were not in the least apologetic.

"Nothing James. Absolutely nothing." Charles said wearily as he turned, and James swore he heard him muttering something about, "Fairies . . . Children . . . Poppycock."

"You really mean it Daddy?" Michael asked, on the verge of tears.

"Oh Michael. Don't cry."

"I only mean, what if we mess up? What if I mess up? What if I knock into someone? What if I don't remember my lines? What-"

James, with much gratitude from his fellow listeners, cover ed Michael's small but continuous mouth with the palm of his hand.

"Michael, believe me, none of those things are going to happen."

"How can you be certain?" It was not Michael who asked this however, because his speech was still being blockaded still by James' hand, but Peter.

James stared long and hard at Peter. James marveled at the fact that he saw Peter nervous. Nervous? Glancing at each of their anxious faces he chuckled slightly, which further unnerved Peter.

"What's so funny?" And from the rest of their faces, it was apparent that each of them was thinking , or perhaps demanding, the exact same thing.

"_What's so funny?_ Well it's just I thought I never see the day when my boys would be serious about anything. Well, with the exception of George of course."

" What do you mean?" they asked in unison

"Well, to be perfectly honest, you bunch are acting like . . . ", he hesitated and then added in an exaggerated astounded whisper, "**_Grown ups?"_**

And with that notion mentioned, they al pulled on grotesque disgusted faces and voiced their obvious disapproval.

He silenced them with the signal of his hand raised in the air.

"Well, if ye don't want to be referred to as, _them, _then why are actin' like this?"

"Were just nervous, that's all Dad." George piped in.

"Yeah you would be, ye _grown up_." James retorted with a straight face and the three remaining boys starred flabbergasted at their brother.

"Aren't children allowed to be nervous too?" George replied in a voice that definitely said that he didn't appreciate being jest at.

"I'm just teasin' ya George. Of course ye can be nervous boys. But ye don't have to be. If you just believe that it's all just a game, then you all act like it's a game. And that's all I want from you."

"You mean no lines, no directions, no orders." Jack asked skeptically.

"Well, I give you a few directions so as you don't wreck havoc on stage, but other than that, it's a free reign. You are free to play like you would with me. Savvy?"

"Savvy."

"Great, now lets get you fitted for costumes."

"Daddy."

"Yes Michael?"

"Can I ask you what I wanted to ask before?"

"Of course", James said happily, feeling less cranky then before, "Boys, you can go on ahead. I'll be a minute." Jack, George and Peter, ran excitedly to the costume designer, "And don't run over Mitch while your going there!" he called after them, as he watched them recklessly run off stage.

"Now, what is it Michael?" He said kneeling again and grasping Michael by the shoulders gently, encouraging him to speak.

"Well, you were coughing a lot this morning. Are you okay now?"

James stared curiously at Michael. _Why would he ask such a random thing as that?_

"Yes Michael I'm fine."

"Are you sure? Because you sounded like Mommy used to."

Silence hung between them like an unwanted spectral spirit that wanted to posses them.

_So random..._

"Yes Michael."

And he added, without thinking.

"Just a bit of a chest cold."

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**_A/N What do you think. Personally I think that was really crappy. But you decide. Don't worry its going to get a lot better and a real tear jerker, but I just almost overcame writers block. Just to let you know I am wriitng another Neverland fic soon. It is completely different from this one however. RR savvy._**

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	9. To Die Would Be An Awfully Big Adventure

**_Neverland_**

_Ch. 9_

"_To Die Would Be An Awfully Big Adventure"_

Apprehension was the only word to describe the trifling emotions that were fervently coursing through James Matthew Barrie's already racked and distressed brain.

He was always in this state before the opening of a play, and tonight was no exception. Sure his play was a huge success the other three times it was performed, but he supposed its always better to think the worst of a scenario so as not to be disappointed or distraught if the unthinkable just happened to occur. After all, different night, different crowd.

And, much to his disappointment, and taste buds, the medicine that was prescribed to cure his malady, seemed to be either sufficiently inadequate for curing his type of illness, or his body was simply rejecting the stuff. His coughing was more frequent and longer in length, and even sometimes he found himself almost incapable of getting out of his bed in the morning, as if his body was dissenting. He hoped that it would go away soon. And it was even worse that the whole house seemed overwrought and meticulous over it. It was just a cold, nothing more.

Five minutes to go to opening of the curtains.

He stood in his usual spot, taping his ivory cane against the crimson velvet carpeting, after previously seeing the children had been settled into their seats alongside their grandmother. His suit was crisp and starched, but not too much. _Just right._ Julie always knew the right amount to put in for that kind of stuff.

Three minutes.

The orchestra's euphony, that had been playing the opening overture, started into its final combination of pieces. The melody calmed him somehow, from all of his previous scrambling. Looking for ties, socks, tickets, seats, production designs, props. It was endless. Well not quite.

It would end when the night was over, and he was back in his bed with his euphonious dreams.

A minute to go.

The doors were already shut and the conductor began moving his arms emphatically to command that the orchestra begin to play the last stanzas of the composed musical. The conductor was a genius. At least James believed so. And whatever he believed was considered gold.

James had envisioned that music always played in Neverland. He told the conductor of such visions, and the composer created what James wanted. He said that first you would walk through a open field and then a fairy would take your hand and make your run along with her so that you would be racing toward some unknown longing. Some... unknown fantasy, that you've been searching for your entire life, and now that you realize that only waiting a few minutes more, you could have it, you feel your heart beat faster, and your anxiety grow.

From the enjoyer's point of view, one would notice that their face would resemble that of a young child. Their eyes wide in disbelief, their mouth slightly open, but not wide enough to cause distraction to themselves. The sheer fact that they can barely keep still, or comprehend what their neighbor is blabbering on about. _Genius._ And when the music finally swells and then you hear that appreciative gasp of surprise, then you know you've hit home. And for that night, people sit in those chairs, remove the masks of fellowship and etiquette that they were tirelessly wearing, they can finally enjoy themselves without the interference of stares and rumors. For there are no lights. And with no lights, no one can see the right way , of the best path, of the noble path to take. Which is the way it is in a child's mind. When they stumble upon an idea or thought, the light turns on, but when they do something retaining those ideas and thoughts, the light turns off, and they are unaffected by the consequences involved, what shall happen later, and who will care.

The music swelled and finished its musical lineage in its measure, and then the signal was given to dim the lights , in both adults and stage, and the curtain to rise.

And so it began, James Matthew Barrie's brilliant play that depicted the escapades of the boy who never grew up.

A HALF AN HOUR LATER

"We are on the rock Wendy, but it is growing smaller. Soon the water will be over it."

James stood, clearing his throat to relieve it of its temporary and to prevent the spasms that threatened to wrack his body.

He needed water.

An usher.

"You lad." he said in a whisper, but since their was complete silence, apart from the fact that there was acting going on , and the usher hurried over.

"Yes sir." he answered, just as quietly.

"Would it be trouble to ask for a wee glass of water?"

"Of course Mr. Barrie. Right away."

"Thanks very much." he said, bowing his head in reply.

The usher hurried up the stairs, and James' eye riveted back to the play.

"What is it?"

"Michael's kite. It lifted Michael off the ground, why should it not carry you?"

"Both of us!"

James began coughing, slightly at first, but then it became even more contagious and he began to cough more violently. But then, unlike the other times, he was unable to stop. It was as if his body was saying, "No, not done yet."

"Mr. Barrie?"

But he didn't hear the obedient usher nor register the fact that he held a glass of water in his hand, which was outstretched toward him. His mind could not comprehend, his lungs constricting so tightly that he gasped wildly for air. His head swam, and he felt as if he was in fact swimming. Racing to break surface.

Each time, just a little closer, a little easier. Until...

"Good-bye Wendy."

The water engulfed him, and he drifted slowly into unconsciousness.

But the play must go on. And so it did, as Peter Pan stood alone in the middle of the stage and bellowed fearlessly as the threatening waves evoked to engulf him as well.

"To die, would be an awfully big adventure."

**_A/N Please don't flame me. I know some of you are gonna hate me, but this is how I think the story should go. So rather than not subject myself to more writers block, lets all be nice, put down the pitchforks and read and review savvy? There are only four more chapters left, I'm thinking. So enjoy while you can._**

**_Thanks to:_**

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**_Meredith A. Jones: I really have a huge smile on my face when I see your reviews. They are extremely long and pleasurable to read. Thanks for you compliments, and for a thirteen year old , you are a very talented writer. I'm fifteen by the way.And I'm glad you can find mistakesso I don't become too egotistical, lol. Thank you again, and please update soon._**

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**_Dawnie-7: I'm sorry your upset honey. But I didn't kill him last chapter._**

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**_Jack Sparrow's Secret Lurrver: Yes honey, I did in fact write that intro. I'm glad you liked it._**

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**_Sliver-Eyes 97: I don't know about writing a novel, but becoming a writer sounds like a good idea. Thanks for the compliment._**

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**_Haylie Jack: I'm glad you didn't think it was the total crap that it was. And as for your question, I can't tell you that. Sorry._**

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**_H.M. Chandler: I'm glad you've overcome writer's block. I hope you enjoy this new chapie._**

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	10. The Truth That Would Ruin It All

**Neverland**

_Ch. 10_

_The Truth That Would Ruin It All_

They waited.

That's all they could do. Nothing else would have mattered. And even if it did, it wasn't done.

Nothing was said. No one moved. It even seemed, maybe even comically if they weren't so worried, that the iron rung chairs with their comfortable but not regarded plush cushions, moved more than they did.

Horrific silence.

A fear crept among them, uncommon from the other, and swept into their hearts and lungs like a turbulent wind on a gusty day. A day full of gloom and depression.

A day for the mourning.

Mrs. du Maurier thought of the symptoms in which was definitely inflicted upon the once jolly man who had once defied and graced her presence.

George thought of the many man to man conversations that they had together and the many he hoped they would have again.

Jack thought of the many games that had unfolded from their creative minds, lusting for adventure. And even those that were unintentionally inappropriate, but effective just the same.

Michael thought of all the secrets he had told him. The ones he should never have told, and he hadn't meant to, but had done it anyway.

Peter.

He didn't think of James Matthew Barrie as a man who he had conversations with, had piratical escapades with, had cried on when suffering overwhelmed him. No. He thought of him as the man who had been his inspiration, his sole purpose for living.

No.

The _boy_ who was his inspiration, for James could never take on the actions of man. He was too kind, too compassionate. Too like the image of a boy as his gayness and innocence shines like that all too familiar second star to the right, which leads onto a glorious paradise that brought him the relief and joy that he thought he'd never experience again.

The boy who taught him to write.

The boy who taught him to live.

The boy who taught him to fly.

"Mrs. du Maurier?" a tall man in his late forties, or perhaps his early forties if his hair hadn't receded so much. He was a doctor. His profession was apparent by the long lab coat that draped on his lanky form.

"Yes doctor?" she answered, trying to sound nonchalant, but failing miserably, when her voice, laced with emotion, squeaked slightly.

"Mr. Barrie is resting now."

"Have you found what is ailing him?"

"We have indeed."

"Well?"

"Do you think it best that the little ones are present?"

She stared at them, and remembering a recent quarrel, she smiled slightly and she quipped, " I am far from adequate to decide what is best for them. If they want to know what its happening to their father, who am I to say no?"

"I-I guess you are in the right madam." He said, slightly taken aback by her response.

"Mr. Barrie's lungs and naval passage ways are severely inflamed. His chest rises rapidly due to his strenuous and vicious coughing which erupts numerous of mucus and lung lining. This further inflicts more pain his system. He is a young lad, but the disease is so far in progress and so advanced, that it is not taking well to his system."

"What does all mean doctors?" she asked, her voice shaking in anxiety.

"Mr. Barrie had contracted consumption."

"What is that?"

"It is a disease that consumes a person's body, until they die or there is nothing left.

"So that means James is..."

"He's going to die of it Mrs. du Maurier." And as she wept into his shoulder he murmured his apologies.

Death.

The truth that ruined it all.

The one that would be the greatest adventure of all...

And he could not partake in it.

Somewhere in the midst of this, time stopped for Peter...

And he felt himself falling.

_**A/N Please don't hit me.**_

_**Consumption is modern-day tuberculosis.**_

**_Thankyous to all who reviewed for the last chapter, especially: H.M. Chandler, Meredith A. Jones and Dawnie-7. You guys have been with me from the beginnning and I hope til the end. Thanks_**


	11. Authoress Note

**_Authoress Note:_**

I just want to take the time to thank all my wonderful reviewers again. You have kept me going and inspired me to continue with this story. I remember when there was only my fic, and two others and now there are 26. And the response that I have gotten was unanimous. 73 reviews so far. Well, here is the thing. We are coming upon the last couple of chapters, and I know a lot of people are upset by the way this is going.

First off, I can't change how my mind works. I write by the spur of the moment. Not exactly wise, but it seems to be effective. I take my ideas and I improvise, one chapter at a time. You may not like how it all comes together, but in the end you all won't be disappointed. Trust me.

Oh and I'll leave you all with this. This is not to be taken lightly.

_**Some things are not always what they seem.**_

I am hoping for eighty reviews for the next chapter, please show your support.

Drink up me hearties yo ho,

_**Neverland's Sparrow**_


	12. The Sorrow of a Father and Son

_Ch, 11_

_The Sorrow Between A Father and Son_

_A lifetime lived, and a lifetime gone. What kind of life is that? _

_Everything perfect...sublime._

_Perfect til a point._

_If we were all perfect, than no one die._

_No crying... no lamenting_

_Everything a paradise... _

_A neverland._

This sentence was struck through a dozen times with the tip of his ebony fountain pen, before, satisfied with his fury, Peter closed his leather binding.

He had be allowed to be sent home. Allowed. Not asked. No really given a choice. But such are the demands of hospital life.

No one was allowed to see him because, as his grandmother said, he needed all the rest he could get.

Why?

Why did it matter if it wouldn't help?

He wouldn't be any less dead.

Fury erupted like a threatening volcanic eruption, and he screeched out of his beamy mahogany chair, leaving fresh groves in the floor and an upheaval of carpeting, as he thundered toward the door of the nursery.

It was late.

The hour was faithfully sounded by the chimes in the grandfather clock on the wall.

Midnight

The time when dark restless souls wandered the Earth.

And Peter was no exception.

88888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888

He saw him. He looked like his old self, perched up on his seat, twirling his fountain pen in between his long poet fingers, and pondering in deep thought on the next thing he was going to write.

He stopped his pen's continuous journey, he raised a fist to his mouth, and coughed harshly into it.

Each cough a comfortless and scorching reminder of the inevitable. The relentless truth that now haunted them all.

His spasm deceased and he picked up the tall crystal glass next to a heavy metallic pitcher full of water, and began to gulp greedily, hoping to ease the coppery taste that had vacated into his mouth.

Finished, he picked up his pen and began writing furiously, the words flowing out of his pen like silk and onto the now inhabited paper.

Peter walked over to him, evocatively glancing at his feet as they edged forward so as not to be caught in any obstacles that stood out in impedance.

But before he could reach the desk in which the man sat alone, animatedly writing, a voice called out to him. One that he had been longing to hear.

"Hello Peter."

That silky sweet Scottish baritone, that had always lulled him to the deepest depths of his imaginations and was like a map to his secret happiness, caused complete vehemence as he found how bittersweet it had become.

It once was so pleasingly mellisonant, even dulcet in its symphony as it passed through his ears to the center of his ve ry heart.

But now, it seemed, as if this force had become atrocious. A violent redolence that struck at him and bedeviled him into hopeful denial. He almost had the insane and untillable urge to weep.

"I heard ya before ye even stepped into the room."

He thought he had been careful.

"Are ye not talkin' to me Peter?"

No answer.

"Well then if ye refuse to talk to me, then why are ye here?"

No answer again.

Slightly unnerved by his muteness, James turned around in his chair.

The way he looked scared Peter.

His eyes were rimmed with a permanent darkness from lack of sleep and illness, and his face lacked the shine of the sun's meddling but besprent influence, despite the fire hearth's glow. His clothes, or pajamas for that matter, seemed as if they did not belong there, as it hung like an undesirable stranger over his skin. He seemed, to have been replaced by a sadder melody. One that would never race the hearts of his little men. Never sing sweet lullabies to soothe them to sleep. Hold them in his arms as they wept their woeful tragedies. To teach them the right way to understand... to think...

To believe.

He could never again offer those things, for his body had already given in. It was only a matter of time before the rest of him did too.

"What's wrong Peter?"

"What's wrong Peter?" Peter mimicked in whispered impersonation.

"I just asked ye that. Are ye just gonna stand there like a lifeless knob, or are ye gonna answer me question?"

"Liar."

"Excuse me?" James asked scandalized. Such an accusation caused his eyebrows into shocked confusion.

All the fury and sorrow had finally reached its climatic peak, as he fell to the floor, clutching his sides that ached in involuntary pain. A pain so painful it was sweet. Real. Something that reminded him that he was still living.

"Peter..." Peter heard James quietly.

He knew it before he felt it. James reaching out to him. But James was the one who pulled away then, and it was Peter who pulled away now.

"No!" he yelled as he scurried back on his hindquarters and legs, to keep enough space between the two of them.

"Peter..."

"No! Don't say anything! All you'll tell me is lies!"

"How can ye say that?" he said, thoroughly appalled by Peter's choice of words.

Peter hadn't answered right away, and this led James to wonder.

What had happened to his shining lad that had hung from that chandler, lit like a faery from the many lights surrounding him. But the lights were superfluous, however, for Peter shone with a light of his own. A delightful glow; an illuminated silhouette radiating perfect innocence and felicity. Heart filled kindness and that childish wonder that had always amazed him. That trait that he always longed to see.

That trait he loved.

But it was gone. Well, not entirely.

A faint dim. Just enough presence to be seen. Vague...

Like a dying faery.

Someone who's stopped believing.

"Peter... Listen to me."

Peter looked up.

There it was. Still barely apparent, but you could see it. He could feel it. That lustful wonder that consumed a little boy whole.

Those dewy tears shone somehow as a sign of great comfort, and so James continued.

"I promised you, and it still stands. I told ye, a long time ago, that I would never lie to you."

"What about at the rehersal?"

"What are you talkin 'bout?"

"When you told Michael that the reason you were coughing that morning was because you had a chest cold."

Realization his James like a brick wall, but the blow was lessened somehow. That feeling of finding out that the accusation was wrong. Perhaps it was considered relief. James hadn't the faintest idea, and he had no time to dwell on it now.

"Your right about one thing Peter. I did tell Michael that I had a chest cold. But the thing is I thought I had a chest cold too." Peter stood up at this statement as the barrier of resilience that he held broke, as fury through him. All his hesitation gone.

"Oh sure, more excuses. Just like mom. All she ever told us were lies. If she lied about her dying, whose to say she didn't lie about being our mom."

The force that James had hit Peter with the palm of his hand, sent Peter into, it seemed, more deeper depths than he wished to venture.

James.

Furious.

Peter had never seen him so livid in his entire knowing of him, nor did he wish too. But it seemed he was glued to the carpeting of the floor. Or was it perhaps the fire that crackled in his father's blazing eyes, which seemed more furious and more dastardly than a wildfire spending havoc to all those gumptious to meddle in its path, that kept him there.

"How dare you."

Peter wished he would have yelled at him. Screamed at him like his grandmother did.

But then he realized, that was probably why he was never afraid of her. Because he could _expect_ her to yell. _Expect_ her to bring out the paddle and serve him his daily ounce of discipline so routinely that he didn't even feel the pain and his "I'm Sorry"'s were becoming less meaningful each encounter.

But with James, he didn't know what to expect. Usually his sporadicness was a benefit, for he was always pleasant. But having never encountered this different side of James before, he was terribly frightened.

"Your mother loved you more than life itself, and in the end... it killed her. She wanted to spare you, your brothers, your grandmother, and myself, the unpleasantness and the destructive force of knowing a loved one will one day never be there. Never there again to hold us when we shed our tears, for whatever reasons imaginable. Never there again, to catch us when we fall. Never there again to spend the days, living as if t'were their last, and being truly happy.

"She wants you to be happy Peter. She wanted to save you especially. She wanted you to stop taking your sorrow and making it a priority, when you have everything here that you could ever need to help you along the way. To get past it and know that the dead never truly leave us. She's here with us Peter, listening now. Just look out the window, and she's there, twinkling brighter than any other. Just b-"

"Stop it! No more believing! All its ever its ever brought me is pain!"

"Peter youhave tobelieve, if you don't, then-"

"Then what, you won't die? Mom would be alive?"

James had no answer. If there ever really was one, he could have used it now.

"You can't believe something won't happen, because in the end, it always does. But the pain is even stronger than what it could have been if you accepted it. Believing is just blocking out reality."

"You've got it all wrong lad."

And he picked Peter up, with surprisingly no objection, and knelt down to be level with him as he stared back at him.

"Believing isn't forgetting. Pretending is. Your not pretending if you believe in something. When you pretend you hide yourself away in that place you know all too well, and you barricade the doors and the only way to get you out again is to stop the pain. And to stop the pain is to forget. Tell me, what does your mother look like?"

Peter thought. And thought...and thought some more.

What did she look like?

Was her hair the reddish color that bloomed on a welcoming rose, or was it a shade of gold, one that shone of a sunset and illuminated the crystal waters of the clearest sea?

Was her eyes the darkest color of emerald as it shined like an alluring jewel, rarer than any other , or, perhaps the deepest shade of blue as the stars began to appear in the sky?

Her favorite book?

How she laughed?

How she sang?

How she smiled?

New tears welled up in the duct of his eye.

"I can't remember anything. I-I don't know what she looked like, how she talked, and walked, and laughed. How she dressed. What song she would sing to lull us to sleep every night. How she scolded us when we did something wrong... I just can't remember."

"You've stop believing Peter."

"Do you remember what she looked like?"

"Oh, aye, I do."

"How did she looked"

"Her hair as golden red as the fiery sun, when it begins its descent into the water grave of dusk. Her eyes as crystal blue as the farthest ocean. Her smile, that warmed even the coldest day. Her laugh was one that would, despite your problems, make us join in as well, even if you missed the wit in the conversation entirely. And she always had this glow about her. Like a- a childish glow. One, that despite everything she had until she died."

"What was it?"

"Love Peter." he said, the emotion so strong as he held a hand to Peter's heart, " _Love."_

Peter wrapped himself around James tightly, but James relished the weight and held Peter just as close.

Two people.

Father and son.

One holding the other as he wept his crimson tears, and the other being comforted by the warmth and tenderness of the other.

One would believe that everything would be all right.

That after this moment, everything would resolve itself, that everything would stay the way it was. But, when truth was brought into the world, it became so contagious, that it could never be denied. And that is why, when we lie, we hear that voice, which is our conscience, tell us we have wronged. And there was no way James was going to lie to Peter, or himself anymore. It was one thing to lie to himself. He lied to himself, so that when the worst happened, he wouldn't be so distraught. So disappointed.

For he knew it would happen one day. Perhaps not that soon, but someday. No use evading the inevitable.

But to lie to a child. To pretend.

It is the worst and most lasting mistake that a parent can invoke on a child. Because once you do, you have lost them. Lost them in an eternal void where you cannot follow.

And that insanely loveable, undeniable glow diminishes.

Fades.

Until everything you ever loved and lived for is gone.

For they're just like you.

Grown up.

Lost forever.

"I'm dying Peter."

He pulled Peter slightly out of his clutches, and held him by his shoulders.

"I never lied to you before, and I won't lie to you now."

"I'm dying Peter. I can't stop it, and neither can you. It is meant to happen, however it does. It's not meant to be changed."

"I don't want to forget you too."

"You won't. If you promise me one last thing."

"What?"

James stared at him as tears welled in his eyes that he had forever being wanting to realease.

And as he stared, he watched as that ambiguous glow, started to grow. It grew like a torment for James, as the wonder and excitement and the previous events caught up with his little lost boy. And he knew that he would do whatever he asked.

Whatever he desired, it would be his. Whatever he longed for, the need would be unsatisfied until it fulfilled. And the wonder would never stop, never cease, until the question had finally been answered.

And to answer his little faery, Peter Pan answered, as silent tears of joy mingled with the knowledge of sacrifice that pained his eyes and jubilated with his fears, in a voice so low that only the faery could hear him.

"Just believe."

**_A/N We made it eighty reviews!_**

**_I want to thank of you who have reviewed for this entire story so far. Especially: Meredith A. Jones, Dawnie-7, and H.M Chandler. Love you me hearties. Enjoy this new chapter._**


	13. I Can't Sleep

_Ch. 13_

_I Can't Sleep_

His fountain pen, starved of ink and no longer replenished, lay on the furthermost corner of where his wrist and hand had previously been.

_A good leather binding..._

The hard cover bearing the respectable title, "Peter and Wendy", was blatantly emboldened to catch the eye of a reader, like a jeweler if offered the rarest hoarded wealth of jewels left on the face of existence. The binding held together with the strongest paper glue available and covered with the same material of the cover and also outlined in gold. The pages sparkled with a lustful shine, and perhaps even fraudulent glimmer, as if it awaited eagerly and itched for its spine to be cracked open and revel the last of its tantalizingly new secrets.

_It was finished. Complete_. _Fulfilled._

His work, the work that took him his whole life to realize, to accept, was sitting in front of him, and just looking at the opulent cover and elementary title, he came to the ultimate conclusion of how lamentable his life really had been.

A mother who had only acknowledged him when he was pretending to be someone else.

And a brother...

A _friend_ who had gotten lost like the loose leaves of autumn, dancing in the breeze...never to return again.

He had lost them all... but the one that had only really mattered perhaps was David, and he wasn't even alive for the majority of his life.

David was lucky, perhaps, he thought.

David had got away. Got away before life had gotten a firm hold on him.

David never really knew suffering... never really understood sorrow.

Never knew what it was like to feel the scorching burns of a vindictive glare or the bruising after effects of simpleton jests as it scorched the very contours of the heart, despite the bitter, unmitigable winds of frosty December.

Never comprehended what fear was. How it lurked and clung to the very skin on one's bones. How it sucked every meaningful and lighthearted memory from you, and only left in its wake, that acerbic feeling of utter calamity and panic that erupts, cascades, and plummets into our lower region like a vexing dip in crystal water.

Never understood what it truly felt like to judge and be judged for nothing more than a simple reason of loathing.

Never felt the unfathomable theory of love. To love to the heart's content, and to know, that despite other influences that tried to invoke pure havoc, there is only one answer to solve that problem in which we have been tangled by mortal's web. That love will always prevail. For without love, they would be no other feelings that which we associate with everyday.

_Like Sorrow_.

_Compassion._

_Loneliness._

_Grief._

All these, mixed together, form a concoction so deadly, even Satin would curl up in a perfectly, symmetrical sphere, scuffle to his most comforting corner, and rock to and fro, back and forth, in a rhythm set only for himself, as he waited for the unknown to pass. Very much like the Jews had done, when waiting for the Spirit of Death to befall on those other then themselves.

But that is what we always expect. We always expect the worst to pass; never linger. We always expect there to be a tomorrow to look to, another opportunity to begin again.

But what if we didn't?

What if we only had one chance, one shot, to make everything right?

Or else...all was lost.

David, ultimately, never lingered long enough to know the undeniable feeling of loss.

To lose is to never gain again. Its permanent, set in stone.

A loss is never really healed, for like a broken bone, once constructed back into its rightful position, it may be healed, but you realize it will never be the same. Like a perfect, imperfect balance. Almost right, but not quite. Never fully reaching the end...always stopping a scant breath short of the goal.

A loss is the feeling of utter remorse...oversimplified sorrow. A person always clings to compunction...for reasons no one shall ever know. One would think, that one's true meaning in life was to strive for true happiness, utter satisfaction. No one really thinks or believes that sorrow and grief can overwhelm them into the bittersweet confines of the broken hearted. But when it comes down to it...the truth of it all is...

No one can ever really let go.

David never had a chance...but David was the lucky one.

The luckiest one of all.

For James knew all these things.

Experienced them anew, like a babe doing the first of everything.

He knew happiness.

He knew sadness.

He knew compassion.

He knew suffering. For without suffering there would be no compassion.

He knew what it meant to live. To breath each breathe like it was his last.

And ultimately, he know what it was to love. To love without a care. To know that love was endless...completely and utterly blissful. He knew the best of love, and perhaps even its worst. But he never considered it as the _worst_, for that is a horrible word.

_Tough._

He knew tough love. And the sacrifices that were destined to be fulfilled.

And he knew loss like a second brother. Perhaps even a second skin.

He had learned to take loss as an escape. An escape to a land.

But it wasn't enchanted. Wasn't full of faeries and mermaids and pirates, and boys that emphasized the irrepressible spirit of youth .

No...

It was known as the Shadow Lands.

He called it the Shadow Lands, because all his life, to him it seemed the only way to describe what he was going through, was to refer to them as shadows.

He believed this because it seemed, that where he was, he lived in the shadows and the sun always shined... somewhere else.

That was until he had met Sylvia Llewelyn Davies, and her four charismatic young lads.

They showed the way out of the shadows and into the delightful warmth, and radiance of the sun.

They taught him there was always a reason to love...to live.

They taught the meaning of innocence, and deceit.

They taught him the reasons for loss, and conclusively, the escape that always held the sunshine.

_Neverland_

He sat still, staring at the masterpiece of a lifetime.

And yet, something was missing. Something perfectly imperfect.

Something lost, but soon to be found.

Something uncompleted.

Something left unsaid.

He wanted to give those who read his book, the feeling of the unrestricted sunshine. The paradise that he had searched all his life, and found in the simplest and clearest of ways.

And it started off like this...

_Neverland. _

_Your ultimate dreams. Your wildest fantasies. Those thoughts that can never be spoken out loud except to the picturesque mermaids that decorate the lagoon's bank. Never written down, for that adult-like fear that it would be discovered._

And it continued well on into the night. His hand unrelenting. His mind searching fervently for the words he wanted everyone to know and understand. Before it was too late.

_Neverland. _

_The one place where you could take your escape from the too hard, the too exhausting, and the too real reality that you're living in and haunts you everyday, until you pass on._

_A Neverland is never limited to one part of your imagination, and each one is different to the beholder. Neverland has no faults, no differences, no problems, and no cracks that you can slip through if you lost your way… just pure bliss. Just your happy memories. Just…paradise._

_Some people might think of it as heaven, you know, the place you go when your soul leaves Earth and becomes immortal._

_Maybe that's what Neverland really is. A haven. A place where we start over. Where, instead of dying, we truly live. A place full of warmth and security. Perhaps security from the world we once knew. Yes. You the know world I'm talking about. If not, I'll explain._

_That world full of problems and obstacles, that when you look at it from Neverland's point of view, wasn't really that important. Wasn't really that critical. For instance, those unfinished bills, those ceiling piled papers you forgot to sign, those impressions you tried to make on people, when in fact, those people didn't really matter._

_A place where crying is unheard of, fictional. Tears in Neverland, if there ever is any, are called love drops. Love drops are those tears in the stream in ones eyes that are held for the most pleasant occasions. Occasions full of jollity…laughter…happiness. These drops are only produced by the most gay, but everyone has them. The only reason that some do not perform them is because they have forgotten. Because they have grown up._

_People say that you grow up, because you don't want to be a child anymore. And I suppose that's true. Some people don't want to be children anymore. Some people find that childhood is just a waste, a loss of time when you could have been doing more serious things like going to work. And they're entitled to that opinion, that frame of mind. But, adults pay the ultimate sacrifice when they choose this. In the span of up to thirty seconds, which humanely is not considered a lifetime, a lifetime is forgotten. Boys become men and girls become women, and they lose their former self completely. They loose the things that are valued the most in children. Their gaiety…their heartlessness…and the one thing that separates them from adults… their innocence. When people die, there last few moments, save for their thoughts of their special haven, they usual reflect on what it was that went wrong in their life. Where they went wrong. That is not so in children._

_Children are, if anything, more complex to understand than adults, and despite adults greedy intentions, children are not so easily won. Children know what happens. They feel it before they see. They can read through the contours of your voice, and they can make your expressions seem transparent. Secrets are the only elements of pretend that children do not believe in. And that is why secrets die so fast; no child is there to believe them._

_The most complex thing about a child is their mind. Everyday a child grows older, grow wiser, and with that comes the elements of adulthood, of knowing. Have you ever tried to read a child's mind? No I suppose you haven't. You can't. It's impossible! A child's mind is not like a map that you can open and close constantly and refer to as your ultimate reference, and know it shall never contain or reveal new information. Doctors can create maps of other parts of your body, like your circulatory system for example. They create a map for those just in cases, in case anything is ever wrong or out of place. That is unheard of in a child's mind. Imagine them trying to conjure a map of a child' mind. I'd like to see them try. For a child's mind is not only confused, but keeps going and working and seeing all the time. It's always registering something, no matter what it is. Nothing is out of place there. Everything is taken in, never sorted out. In their mind they have all the adventures of that day, the things they heard, the places they'd seen, and even though they them stow away in the back of their mind, they never forget. Until they're an adult of course._

_When they become an adult, they are able to now sort out those memories and things that they don't want or don't find necessary anymore. They pack them up in boxes and just like a woman who is divorced and does not wish for the husband to contain his things in her presence anymore, they throw it out through the window in the part of their brain that contains their mentality. Most of the time, those boxes, contain their imaginations. The one thing that adults keep, for reasons that I am unsure of, is the ability to pretend._

_Now, even if you can't see it, there is a difference from imaging to pretending. To imagine is to see yourself as you wish you could be. You have no other frame of mind, no other thought besides your wanting, your need, and your happiness. Imagining is forgetting the consequences, the problems and just remembering that there is a way to escape. Pretending is like the qualifications of murder, although not that drastic. To pretend means that you know full well that there is a world beyond which you pretend. There are consequences; there are rules. To pretend, you make an artificial escape, believing that as long as no one knows, you can keep pretending. But, when someone discovers the truth, you can't pretend anymore. And that is why children grow up so fast when they find that all adults pretend to them. In reality all mothers suffer a death of a child. They loose them when they grow up. They loose them when they start pretending._

_Neverland_

_The place where adults find their imaginations again. A place where adults don't need a status to be accepted. No one is rejected._

_Neverland_

_A place where you never get older and never get tired from those things that you thought unimportant. The place where adults stop growing up and truly start living. Adults see the truth in things, not the price. They see the things they rejected to see because they were to busy, too tired, or too old. Neverland is the place where they realize they never get older and never get tired from those things that they thought unimportant. These being mainly their childhood. They embrace it with open arms and they realize that their forgotten childhood imaginations, wasn't really a barrier to happiness in life. That their life might have been better if they just believed in their imaginations and didn't throw it out their glass frames._

_My name is really of no consequence to those living in real life, but to them I am known as James Matthew Barrie. I know what your thinking. Since I know so much about Neverland, you think I invented it; that I made it up. But that is not so. The first baby, known as Cain, was the first child to open its eyes and embrace his imagination and create his ultimate escape, his Neverland. The first Neverland. _

_Neverland was created by God, and is his final gift. Heaven. But Cain, being human and mortal and containing God's gift of free will, he was also known as the first boy to become a man, and to throw his imagination away… to stop believing._

_You don't know me, so you don't have to believe me, but Neverland is real. It exists, whether you accept it or not. I did not invent it; I just named it. And in Neverland, I have my own name. A different one. One that is not judged or classified in status. One that reflects my imagination, which I have never lost even though I am thirty-three years of age. I have never grown up, although because of how I appear, that is what adults believe. I say adults because they have suffered the loss of their imagination. But children, who still have their precious imaginations, and know the truth of Neverland, disregard my born name, and bless me with this one…_

Before it was lost...

_Forever_

8888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888

The door creaked open, its hinges protesting, as the familiar squeak was heard amongst the unnerving silence of the room.

The scene which was laid to the eyes was that of the still impeccably clean room of James Matthew Barrie. His desk to the right which contained his files, manuscripts, and most importantly, a solitary book that was infinitely new and out of place beside the taciturn colors of the aging papers and envelopes. The rest of the room unfolded and crackling hearth, and a crimson bed with a man enfolded inside its majestic comforts.

The four boys, all of which we supposed to be in their peaceful slumber, found they couldn't indulge in their sweet fancies, and so, resisting the unforceful ties of sleep, they crept closer to their unaware ,and hopefully peacefully asleep, loved one.

As the gingerly stepped closer, (some steps longer, some steps shorter) they breathed a sigh of relief as they noticed their guardian breathing heavily the sweet warm air billowing in from the open window, and mingling in with that of the air coming from the hearth.

But what was once a feeling of relief, sharply changed to that of anxiety, for the youngest of the four, Michael, had abruptly erupted into an acute , silence-breaking, sneeze.

They all glared quickly at Michael, and then rapidly turned their attention toward their father with apprehension. But being far from disturbed, a small smile crept on his peaceful face.

Even with his eyes closed, he still appeared happy.

And almost giving off the impression of knowing. As if...

He knew they would come.

"What are ye lads doin' out of bed. If I was lookin' at the clock right now, how much would ye like to bet, it be a wee bit passed your bedtime." the Scottish baritone, laced and drunk with the effects of slumber, said with the smile evident in his voice.

"We couldn't sleep father. " George said, with a guilty but honest voice.

"Yeah, we wasn't tired." Michael piped in, and then scurried back into his meek look of secrecy.

"Oh, ye weren't were ye?"

They shook there heads in unison.

"All right, since it seems I am suffering from the same aliment as you all, I think we should all spend the obvious _resentment _in each other's company," he emphasized this word with a wink, "Everybody in."

Jubilant, they all literally jumped into the bed with James.

"So what shall we do, father." Peter asked.

"Well, how about we listen to a story?"

They were sudden cheers ranging from "Yeah!", "Story!", and "Oh please!"

"But are you feeling up to a story?" George asked, with enough common sense to see through James' obvious misdemeanor.

"I'm feeling better than I have been in a long time. Peter," he said turning to his right and asking, "Could you grab the book siting on my desk."

He came back obediently and placed it on James' lap.

"That's a good lad."

He stared down at his lap, and reached to lift the cover, but some unnatural force seemed to hold his wrist in place.

"Whats's wrong, father?" Peter asked, worry controlling his emotions.

"Here."

Peter stared up in disbelief.

"Read it. I want to hear it...once more."

And so, clearing his throat, Peter began, with the opening full of eloquence and raptured integrity.

_All children, except one, grow up. They soon know that they will grow up, and the way that Wendy knew was this. One day when she was two years old she was playing in a garden, and she plucked another flower and ran with it to her mother, I suppose she must have looked rather delightful, for Mrs. Darling put her hand to her heart and cried, 'Oh why can't you remain like this forever!' This is all that passed between them on the subject, but henceforth Wendy knew that she must grow up. You always know after you are two. Two is the beginning of the end._

Time passed like magic in the room, and evoked the family in a phantasmal web that lingered in their hearts, and filled them with a sense of satiable freedom. From the contours of Neverland, to the escape to that magical star to the right leading straight on until morning, from dastardly pirates, and evil intention of trickery and death, to the ultimate chance of believing.

They experience it all, through one man's mind and heart. They way it was supposed to be read and loved.

The way that it still is.

And so, with much regret, Peter turned to the last page and began to finish the story. Little did they know, the Davies boys and James Barrie were about to embark on their last risky venture.

_And then one night came the tragedy. It was the spring of the year, and the story had been told for the night, and Jane was now asleep in her bed. Wendy was sitting on the floor, very close to the floor, so as to see to darn, for there was no other light in the nursery; and whiled she sat darning she heard a crow. Then the window blew open as of old, and Peter dropped on the floor._

_He was exactly the same as ever, and Wendy saw at once that he still had all his first teeth._

_He was a little boy, and she was grown up. She huddled by the fire not daring to move, helpless and guilty, a big woman._

_'Hullo Wendy,' he said, not noticing any difference, for he was thinking chiefly of himself; and in the dim light her white dress might have been the nightgown in which he had seen her first._

_'Hullo Peter,' she replied faintly, squeezing herself as small as possible. Something inside her was crying 'Woman, woman, let go of me.'_

_'Hullo, where is John?' he asked, suddenly missing the third bed._

_'John is not here now,' she gasped._

_'Is Michael asleep?' he asked, with a careless glance at Jane._

"No." James teased Michael as he tickled him slightly, before allowing Peter to continue.

_"Yes,' she answered; and now she felt that she was untrue to Jane as well as Peter._

_'That is not Michael,' she said quickly, least a judgement should fall on her._

_Peter looked. 'Hullo, is it a new one?'_

_'Yes.'_

_'Boy or girl?'_

_'Girl.'_

_Now surely he would understand; but not a bit of it._

_'Peter,' she said faltering, 'are you expecting me to fly away with you?'_

_'Of course that is why I have come.' He added a little sternly, 'Have you forgotten that this is spring-cleaning time?'_

_She knew it was useless to say that he had let many spring-cleaning times pass._

_'I can't come,' she said apologetically, 'I have forgotten how to fly.'_

_'I'll soon teach you again.'_

_'O Peter, don't waste the fairy dust on me.'_

_She had risen; and now a fear assailed him. 'What is it?' he cried, shrinking._

_'I will turn up the light,' she said, 'and then you can see for yourself.'_

_For almost a moment the only time that I know of, Peter was afraid. 'Don't turn up the light,' he cried._

_She let her hands play in the hair of the tragic boy. She was not a little girl heart-broken about him; she was a grown woman smiling at it all, but they were wet smiles._

_Then she turned up the light, and Peter saw. He gave a cry of pain; and when the tall beautiful creature stooped to lift him in her arms he drew back sharply._

_'What is it?' he cried again._

_She had to tell him._

_'I am old Peter. I am ever so much more than twenty. I grew up long ago.'_

_'You promised not to!'_

_'I couldn't help it. I am a married woman, Peter.'_

_'No, you're not.'_

_'Yes, and the little girl in the bed is my baby.'_

_'No, she is not.'_

_But he supposed she was; and he took a step towards the sleeping child with his dagger upraised. Of course he did not strike. He sat down on the floor instead and sobbed; and Wendy did not know how to comfort him, though she had done it so easily once. She was only a woman now, and she ran out of the room to try and think._

_Peter continued to cry, and soon his sobs woke Jane. She sat up in bed, and was interested at once._

_'Boy,' she said, 'why are you crying?'_

_Peter rose and bowed to her, and she bowed to him from the bed._

_'Hullo,' he said._

_'Hullo,' said Jane._

_'My name is Peter Pan,' he told her._

_'Yes, I know.'_

_'I came back for my mother,' he explained, 'to take her to Neverland.'_

_'Yes, I know,' Jane said, 'I been waiting for you.'_

_When Wendy returned diffidently she found Peter sitting on the bed-post crowing gloriously, while Jane in her nighty was flying round the room in solemn ecstasy._

_'She is my mother,' Peter explained; and Jane descended and stood by his side, with the look on her face that he liked to see on the ladies when they gazed at him._

James stared fondly at Jack as he ruffled his hair in obvious enjoyment, and laughed heartily when Jack swatted away his hand and began grooming himself.

_'He does need a mother,' Jane said._

_'Yes, I know,' Wendy admitted rather forlornly; 'no one knows it so well as I.'_

_'Good-bye,' said Peter to Wendy; and he rose in the air, and the shameless Jane rose with him; it was already her easiest way of moving about._

_Wendy rushed to the window._

_'No, no,' she cried_

_'It's just for spring-cleaning time,' Jane said; 'he wants me always to do his spring cleaning.'_

_'If only I could go with you,' Wendy sighed._

_'You see you can't fly,' said Jane._

James calmly coughed in an apologetic, but attention grasping matter, and gently removed the book from Peter's hands and confused gaze. He closed it on it's hinge, took a deep hearty breath, and recalled the last page from memory, for it had been the last thing he had written.

_"'Of course in the end Wendy let them fly away together. Our last glimpse of her shows her at the window, watching them receding into the sky until they were as small as stars._

_"' As you look at Wendy you may see her hair becoming white, and her figure little again, for all this happened long ago. Jane is now a common grown-up, with a daughter called Margaret; and every spring cleaning time, except when he forgets, Peter comes for Margaret and takes her to the Neverland, where she tells him stories about himself, to which he listens eagerly. '"_

James breath becomes short and limited as he inhales deeper to get more air. He swallows gently and inhaling once more, he finishes,

"'_When Margaret grows up she will have a daughter, who is to be Peter's mother in turn; and thus it will go on, so long as children are gay...innocent...and heartless.'"_

James bowed slightly at the waist and said with a stunning smile, "The End."

They applauded loudly, Peter loudest of all. He was so proud of his father. And he knew now he always would be.

He remembered now what it felt like to fly. The rush, the speed...and yet there was a grace to it. Even more than 'falling with style.' No there was a certain religious feel about it. A commitment.

A test of faith.

"All right boys. Time for bed."

He kissed each one of them on the head and bid them goodnight. They waved to him one last time, and headed toward the nursery.

However, Peter was the only one who stayed behind.

The reason for his almost immediate, but delayed departure, was that he heard a small squeak, and sharp intake of breath that resembled something close to that of a sob.

And indeed, James was curled up in his bed, his arms around his head, his head resting on his knees and the sound continues.

He was crying.

"Boy, why are you crying?" Peter answered, and James looked up suddenly, surprised and then not so surprised to see Peter there.

He smiled and whispered, "Come here."

Immediately he was at his side and with the same fervor, James pulled him into a hug.

_His hugs used to be so fruitful and powerful. Now it seems he can barely hold me._

"What's the matter father?"

He couldn't answer him. The pain was far too strong and it wasn't resisting.

"I just love you all so much."

'We love you too."

"Peter, will you promise me something?"

"Anything."

" Don't grow up faster than ye have to."

"What?"

"I know I'm not young enough to know everything, and I've spent me whole life regretting it. Don't end up with me regrets Peter. Live each moment as it comes. Don't let anyone bring ye down, and keep on doing what ye think is important to _you_. You are only as young as ye let yerself believe. Never stop believin' Peter.

"There is always a _key_ to every portal, which always leads to a _secret_. Find that _key_ and you'll find _me._"

"What does that mean?"

He smiled wryly, "You won't know now, me wee bonnie lad. But you will soon. I promise ye that. And I never will lie to you."

"I know."

"Then please Peter, whatever you do, don't stop, " his breathing catching in his throat, " don't stop...believing."

"I won't"

"Promise me Peter. Promise you will believe."

He stared into those chocolate eyes, the warmth that had once rivaled the hearth's majestic glow, was now smoldering right before his eyes.

"I promise."

He smiled, hugged him one last time, and said as he held close, "I shall never forget you Peter."

"Nor I you father."

He laid James down on the pillow, and smoothed his hair from his sweating tear shed face.

No words were spoken.

None were needed.

His breaths became more deep and less. Peter held his hand tightly in his, but the man on the other end was barely holding on.

_To lose._

In the end, all that matters is not how it happened, or why, it's about the times where you could forget what happened, and remember why those that you loved mattered to you most. No words were spoken, because visions of remembrance flashed like clockwork in the two children that occupied a once broken man's bed.

_The play._

_Long days in the park._

_The infamous chase of the shoe-stealing dog._

_The lesson on stars_

_The tears shed for the loss of their only lost girl._

_Fights with Grandma_

_Dancing dogs pretending to be bears._

_How they first met._

_And how James had taught them all to fly._

_To_ believe.

He was slipping away. Getting lost amongst the dancing leaves that swayed in the persistent winds of autumn. But Peter smiled through it all, and felt every tremor of life pass out of James' body as he prepared to go home.

To Neverland.

"It's finished father. It's okay , you can go home now."

"Peter..."James said, no forced used, and he sounded like a frail old man.

"Shh. Sleep now.

"Neverland is waiting for you father. Go to it. They're all waiting for you."

"But Peter..."

His took one last gusty sigh and with a wet smile he whispered mischeviously,

"I can't sleep."

And so ended the lamentable tales of James Matthew Barrie and his four wee little lost boys, George, Jack, Michael, and Peter, as his hand slipped from the once solid grasp of Peter's hands.

Peter watched a tear roll from the corner of James's right eye.

_Second star to the right_... _and straight on until morning._

They would have adventures again.

When he didn't know.

And he didn't want to know.

One day, though, soon, they would be together again.

Just like James had promised.

And just like he had promised, Peter walked over to the window seat, glanced back at the bed and then gazed back up into a star-filled, midnight blue sky.

A solitary star stood conspicuous from the others.

One star that was the brightest of all.

He stared at it and smiled, and with one tear silently rolling down his face, he answered the stars gentle and welcoming twinkle.

"I'll always believe in you Peter Pan."


	14. Last Wee Bit Of Advice

Acknowledgments

This is for those who are truly interested as to where the last chapter of Neverland is and why I haven't posted it yet. This is basically an Authoress Note, so you are not obligated to read. But you are welcome if you like.

First off, I would like to apologize. There is not going to be another chapter for this story. My reasons are simple. One, I think the last chapter, try as I might to surpass, was truly a perfect, insurmountable ending. Or so I have heard. Secondly, I found that the ending in which I had wanted to write, which would not have shocked most of you (one where he lives) was truly too fictional, and ultimately, to unrealistic to comprehend. Despite the fact that this entire story was based on fiction, I usually like to have an amount of truth and believable evidence. This ending, however, had neither.

And so, to procrastinate no longer, I heartily apologize to those who had looked forward to a final chapter. But to be quite frank, I don't believe I could have thought up of anything that would come more heart-filled and remorseful as that last chapter.

The following thoughts came to me while I was sitting on a bus ride home, thinking how I would phrase this final goodbye to all of you, and you are certainly not obligated to read.

This story came to me one day, after I had gone to see Finding Neverland in theaters. I loved the movie so much, that I wanted to write a fanfiction about it.

The problem was, I didn't know what to write about.

I knew it had to be something based on the characters in the story, and I also knew that I wanted it to be after Sylvia Llewellyn Davies had passed on. But I was so stuck that I needed some kind of inspiration.

So whilst cleaning my room, which I never rarely do, I had stumbled upon this book that I had received as a child. It was called, "Peter and Wendy," written by Sir James Matthew Barrie.

I opened the book and began to read. Now when I was a child, every Christmas my mom would buy me books. The year when I was eight, or whereabouts that age, she had bought me this one, and I was so excited because I had seen the Disney version. But when I sat down and read it, I became confused and disappointed. I couldn't understand the flowery words and foreign expressions in which Barrie had used to describe this magical world that only he was capable of concocting. And since that day, I hadn't wanted to read it again.

But now that I'm fifteen, I realized it was only foreign to me, because I was a child. And I realized that Barrie wrote it like that, to captivate his much older audiences and fans, in order to show them how ridiculous their lives were, and to show them how to believe the way that children do. Not to show children to believe the way that adults do.

So ideas about never growing up, and a pressuring adult society sprang to my fingers and I wrote the first chapter. I had expected it to be a one-shot, but my mind kept whirring and I just couldn't stop writing.

I had conveyed every thought of James and his wonderful boys and their contradicting grandmother that had peaked my fancy, and now I find that they're story is complete.

I had tried to fight off the inevitable, and tried to produce a more joyful tale, but in the end, to keep the story on its momentum, I had to do what I know what everyone wished not to happen.

But that's like all of isn't it. We always want to avoid the inevitable, but what we don't realize is that sometimes the 'inevitable', produces a much better story. I read a quote once that stated that, 'Someone once said that God gave us memories, so that we might have roses in December.' Meaning that despite the horrors that we have faced in the past, we will always be able to find a brighter one in the darkest of times. We will always have a tomorrow to start a new. That is also a contradiction.

We all know, even if only a vague idea, that one day, tomorrow won't be there. One day, we simply won't wake up. 'Time is chasing after all of us.' Never a more truer saying. We always look to squeeze in all the things we do, in order to save time. In order to escape the ticking crocodile. How else do you explain technology? But what we don't realize is that, while we are still trying to make time, once we do, we won't do anything with it. And we realize at the end of it all, it didn't really matter if we wasted time doing something, instead of doing something more important and less time consuming. Because in the end, time catches us anyway. And most people, once caught, find that they spent their whole lives trying to escape, instead of believing it was inevitable and living with what they had. Living all of it, because they could.

'You must have been warned against letting the golden hours slip by. Yes, but some are golden only because we let them slip.'

Time is a precious thing, but we can never understand it. And we can never stop it from passing. That's what is so golden. Those precious moments that we remember in the midst of December and let slip by.

To conclude this rather long thank you, and perhaps lecture, I must say that I wish ultimately that we could always be children. I have found that parents like children, more likely babies, than teenagers. And the truth of it is, is that they hate knowing the fact that they will end up like them. Regretting the hours they let slip away.

Children don't acknowledge time, and its faults, or for that matter, their own. They are too busy wondering what it would be like to grow up. This is the scariest part of the thinking of a child. They wish to be older. They wish to regret. And they are too young to know that literally it is a nerve wracking, disappointing, reality.

So my last word of advice for who managed to stay awake to read this, please don't regret your life for what it is worth. Accept the punches as they come, and place the roses in vases out in the sunshine. Don't try to be something you can never be and always strive for what you want. 'Dreams do come true, if we only wish hard enough. You can have anything in life if you will sacrifice everything else for it.' Ultimately time.

And finally, everyone has to grow up. But that doesn't mean they have to stop believing...

'Just Believe'

Sincerely yours and devoted writer,

Tara Leigh Gleason (Neverland's Sparrow)

All quotes were stated by the true Sir James Matthew Barrie

The last quote was stated by Johnny Depp, who played James Matthew Barrie in the movie, Finding Neverland.

Thank you to all my reviewers. Love you all me hearties


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